


All in a Name

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: Dog People [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Age Swap, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Bipolar Disorder, Character Study, Collars, Communication, Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Humor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nicknames, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pet Names, Puppy Vitya, Romance, Skater Victor Nikiforov, Young Victor Nikiforov, emotional support pet, its chill, never explicitely use the word genderfluid but theres a lot of gender fluidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 76,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: Just because they moved in together in St. Petersburg doesn't mean it's automatically happily ever after. But they get pretty damn close.





	1. Mila

**Author's Note:**

> While the epilogue to Dog People gave a brief look at Yuuri and Victor four months into Yuuri joining him in Russia, I wanted to build that more. Some of this will take place in that four months and some of it further down the road. The basic premise is in each chapter, someone hears Yuuri call Victor 'Puppy' but that's only the thread holding it together. I'm not ready to put this universe to bed.
> 
> The rating will eventually go up...and as usual, if chapters contain material i think is sensitive, they'll prepare u.

* * *

 

In Seoul, in a crowded bathroom, poor Yuuri experiences the anatomically impossible process of shitting his brains out. He’d lost his passport, cried at the service station, and finally been given a new seat on a plane to come in three hours. It is not his day. It was supposed to be his day, a day, a significant day – move to Russia, live with his cute boyfriend, be a pair of internationally known icons…his half of the duo is not living up to standard. He’s glad he’s wearing a face mask  and his hair is down, all over his face like a mop because he's crying in the toilet, nerves twisting his bowels until he’s shaking and foul and screaming unspoken apologies to all other occupants of the bathroom for the disaster that is taking place in the very last stall. Courtesy flush. Courtesy flush.

He’d already updated Victor on the delay, growing more and more guilt-ridden and stupid with every understanding, affectionate message Victor sent him. Victor had quickly launched into a story of his own airport disasters, filling Yuuri’s phone screen with blocks of texts rife with emojis. Yuuri _hadn’t_ lost his skates in baggage. Yuuri _hadn’t_ thrown up in the queue because he was still drunk from a bender the night before. This is true. But right now, he’s pretty sure he’s dying.

He knows he’s not, and he’s not really sick. He should eat a cracker and get some water into him. It’s nerves making him spill apart like this, something he’s experiences far too many times. He knows. He knows. But the sound of toilets flushing and faucets running and the air dryers and the doors slamming and the few meanly bold voices that remark on the smell of the bathroom and the way feet pause outside of his stall, evil hovering presence with eyes and minds learning him and stealing him and then everyone will know he’s just a _dime a dozen diarrhea dancer._ Then the studio won’t want him because he won’t be good for them anymore. He’ll ruin them. And he won’t be able to find work. And Madame Baranovskaya will lift her face away from him and Minako-sensei will hear and disappointment will line under her eyes and she’ll sigh to his mother, and Yuuri will be a fool again. And he’ll be there with darling Vicchan. His Puppy will try so hard to take care of him. That Yuuri knows, with another spasm of his guts. But then he’ll get tired of him because no one will want Yuuri and Yuuri can’t expect anyone to tolerate his failure for that long, bear the burden of his company when he has nothing to give.

He’ll go home, disgraced again. He’ll be on the porch with Mari, smoking into the night. He’ll never have left, he’ll be returned to that night with Mari when doubt was squashed in ash.

 

_“You’re not only leaving for him, are you, Yuuri…I know that you’ll be dancing and teaching. Ah, maybe I think it’s crazy to leave because I never have. You leave again and again. No matter the reason, I never understand.”_

_“I’ll come back, nee-chan.”_

_“should you? You leave, looking over your shoulder. Don’t half-ass it. If you’re going, go!”_

_“I don’t think it’s wrong to hold Hasetstu in my future. It’s not going backwards to return. More…like a circle. I’ll come full circle, but that doesn’t mean I’ve gone backwards. Vic-chan likes it here, he wants to return as well.”_

_“He barely knows what it’s like here. Maybe he should come, rejuvenate Ice Castle.”_

_“Maybe one day. He can’t skate competitively forever. I hope he skates for a long time, and I want to be by his side for it, in his home. It’s much more convenient for me to relocate. He is Russia’s darling pride. I’m sure I’ll have fun somewhere new if I’m with him.”_

He wants to run away. He wants to leave the airport and get on a bus and get lost. Or fly back to Japan and beg Mrs. Yakimura for his old job. He could. She’d do it. Maybe transfer him to a different office. He could change his name when he publishes, assume a pseudonym. Make it so Victor can’t find him. Delete all of his media presence. Get off the grid. In time, he’ll numb over. The past few months will have been a fever dream. As an old man, he’ll barely recall this. He’ll only know what he was by the stories, by a recitation of words and memories and not by the actual emotion of them.

\--But Victor’s waiting for him. His future is waiting for him. All he needs is a nap to quiet his mind, to put it to sleep for a little. A week, maybe a month—in a year, he will recall this with a bitter amusement. He’ll tell Victor about it, once it’s too far away to be scary. How he wanted to run, or to simply die. To stop. Stop time, stop himself, fade away just to have the wilding of his mind cease.

Slumped over, elbows on knees, head dumped into his hands, leg bouncing, his pants and underwear around his ankles, his muddled crying turns to muffled laughter. He needs to wash up and buy some cologne. Eat overpriced café food and watch dog videos. He’s been focused on poodles lately; they’re Victor’s favorite. They’re a good breed, a solid breed. A big, clever, loyal dog would suit Victor.

_“Would you like two puppies, Yuuri?”_

Yuuri had suggested an emotional support pet a week ago. The three weeks it’d taken for Yuuri to arrange his affairs before he could join Victor had not been kind to Victor. The season had ended, on a high note, but still it ended, leaving Victor listless after only a few days. Yakov minded him, to Yuuri’s relief, but still…Victor had started his medication, hoping to be chemically adjusted by the time Yuuri arrived. It made him tired, he said. It made him feel far away. Yuuri wasn’t sure if that wasn’t how Victor felt too often, moving through his day without memory, body in motion like someone else’s dream.

When people had a dog with them on the street, people talked to the dog, not the person. Victor wants that. After he’d confessed that he didn’t always want to talk to people but constantly had to, liked being kind to his fans but that it felt, too often, like dragging parts of himself inside out with the interactions, how tired it left him…well, Mrs. Petrova liked the notion as well. Victor could have a buffer, a companion that he could rely on, in and out of his home. Yuuri couldn’t possibly be with him all the time, nor was he well suited to this particular need in the first place. Hell, he liked the idea for himself but one dog would be quite enough to begin with, amongst all the new beginnings already blooming about them.

He slips his phone from his pocket, grateful that his hands have lost some of their tremor. His screen’s still pulled up to a conversation with Phichit…

That reminded him that he should pick something up to settle his stomach. He still had a few hours left until he could consider himself safe in Victor’s apartment.

As if summoned, his phone buzzes in his hand with a new text.

 

The un-boarding part is easy. Yuuri waits till nearly everyone is off the plane so that he can take his time wrestling down his carry-on suitcase. He has another overstuffed duffle waiting for him. The passengers from his ride travel across the tracks to the airport in a little bus; there’s barely enough space for him to get his phone out of his pocket and alert Victor to his impending arrival. New nerves spring up inside him, anticipation rather than fear.

The barrage of Russian was expected but no less disorienting. Here and there he passes the sound of Pharisee, Mandarin, Urdu, French and English. But primarily he turned dizzy circles through Russian, eyes filled with Cyrillic signs.  Yuuri adjusts his face mask, squinting at the signs, hand twisting around the handle of his suitcase. He’s sweating. He has BO, stale and dank and trapped under his sweater, puffing up to his nose from his armpits with his shuffling steps. It’s mingled with an overbearing amount of cologne desperately applied.

A lanky silhouette in a neon pink ballcap is standing far at the end of the airport, in line for coffee. Yuuri stumbles and pauses, heart seizing. People sift around him, unconcerned by whatever power has taken hold of him. He’s a rock in their faceless surge, their mixed languages and reunions and phone calls. Yuuri steps closer, aimed for Victor, mouth opening, closing, the name pulled to his tongue, ready.

Then the troubling, overpowering thought that that the figure Yuuri’s staring at is not, in fact, his Vicchan, takes hold of Yuuri. He stops dead and sucks in a sharp breath. Well. Victor did say he’d be in incognito.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Yuuri whispers to himself.

“Yuuri?”

It’s not the-person who-is-probably-Victor who said his name. It’s a high, feminine voice, very Russian. His guts start aborting through his colon and his asshole flinches, fighting valiantly for his dignity. He’s been spotted.

“Yuuri, turn around,” the voice laughs. So he does, because giving into the desires of strangers has gotten him a boyfriend and his dream career. Yup. Good track record so far. So he does. And it’s Mila, the little red-haired skater from instagram.

“Hi, Yuuri!” Then she hugs him. She’s small and quick. He can only stiffen at the unwanted contact, flushing, another layer of sickly nervous sweat bursting across his skin. She disengages quickly with a laugh, blushing herself, probably regretting it given his current state of near biological warfare. “Hi!” She smiles prettily, but that’s all. He knows that she’s conversational in English alongside Italian, but right now she’s tight-lipped, mostly staring.

She turns towards where he’d been facing and shouts. “Vitya!”

Two people turn, one being his Victor. His hat’s low, obscuring his face and clearly his vision because he has to tilt his head back to see them and then he squawks, and shouts and bolts out of the line he’d almost made it through, charging towards them, arms outstretched. This time, he’s the one who lifts Yuuri and spins them, swinging Yuuri side to side like a drunken park ride.

“Yuuri,” he gushes, squeezing him tight and then tighter once Yuuri’s back on solid earth. Victor smells good, so familiar, and Yuuri realizes that he’s here. He’s in Saint Petersburg, moving in with Victor. No…no…he’s dazed. He’s…only maybe here. He’ll decide later if he’s actually here and if this is real. “Yuuri~” Victor’s saying again, intent on breaking his ribs and spine. Happiness suffuses his voice. “You stink. Pee-yoo!”

Okay, now Yuuri can go and die.

“I know,” he sighs, head dropping, skin searing away from his skull with embarrassment. Victor laughs and kisses the top of his head, the bill of the ballcap jousting Yuuri uncomfortably.

“Oh, my poor master,” Victor coos with a watery laugh. He’s fluttering around Yuuri. “Where’s your other luggage?”

Mila chimes something in Russian. Victor answers her quickly, and then Mila says something and skips off. Yuuri hears fragments but he’s too addled to follow along properly.

“Mila is going to get it so that I can keep hugging you,” Victor informs.  Yuuri’s fine with that. If Mila wants to fetch it, she absolutely may. He hasn’t seen Victor properly for three weeks, relocated to facetime calls, and he’s _missed_ him. Victor must feel the same way because he has yet to remove his arms from around Yuuri, now contentedly rubbing the side of his face into Yuuri’s hair. Airports might be the only exception to this excessive display of public affection. And ice rinks. Probably dance studios too; Yuuri will make a list and consult Victor.

“You’re here,” Victor sighs after a few minutes. He hasn’t disengaged his limbs.

“Probably,” Yuuri mumbles.

“Probably?” Victor laughs, pulling back juuuuust enough to look into Yuuri’s face. He’s ridiculous and wearing sunglasses indoors and looks more conspicuous than not. Yuuri reaches up and takes them off, eager for those baby blues. Victor wrinkles his nose briefly then beams, gummy heart smile a renegade cupid’s arrow straight into Yuuri’s heart. He’s unfiltered, magnificent reality, too beautiful for anyone’s good.

“Nevermind,” Yuuri whispers, spellbound and stupid. “I’m here.”

Victor cocks his head, assessing, eyes growing a little mischievous and knowing. He purses his lips. “Good. Do keep it that way, Yuuri. I will not like you to go anywhere else. Now!” he chirps loudly, taking Yuuri by the shoulders and stepping back. “Where shall we go? There’s an excellent restaurant half an hour from here, and a new wine garden, quite trendy, that opened up—“

“Vicchan,” Yuuri puts a hand on his chest. “No.”

“No?” Victor whines, making a face. Then he catches Yuuri’s dead eyes and snaps his fingers, gaze shooting over Yuuri, toe to head. “Oh! Of course we can stop at home and you can shower and change. Do you have anything – no, nevermind. I know your wardrobe. You can wear my clothes. I know, I know, most things are too large, but I have this _great_ sheer cloak—“

“Vicchan,” Yuuri says again, fingers curling into Victor’s shirt. “I love you, but if you try to take me out today—“ he pauses, lifts his arm and shakes his hand until his sleeve falls back enough for him to see his watchface “—I don’t even know what day it is, honestly. In the next twenty-four hours, let’s say…If you try to take me out in the next twenty-four hours, someone might die. Not to sound dramatic, but death is on the table.”

“Oh,” Victor says carefully. But his light isn’t out in the least. Instead, he looks pleased. “So you want to go straight home?”

_“Yes.”_

“And do couples’ things at home?” Victor’s face is a careful mask of divine innocence. He doesn’t have the cheek fat to go for cherubic, but he’s cultivating an avant-garde attempt.

“I want to go…home, yes,” Yuuri pauses just slightly, re-calibrating his concept of home, “and take a shower.” Victor nods. “Then I want to stretch every muscle in my body.” More encouraging nodding. “Shower again and soak in the bathtub that you _did_ scrub clean…?” Victor’s smile stretches guiltily. Yuuri sighs. “And take a nap _or_ drink my weight in caffeine. Whatever gets me into this timezone.”

“I will make this happen for you,” Victor pledges, squeezing Yuuri’s shoulders. “With the addition of food. There is food waiting for you at home.”

Yuuri’s sad, swampy, empty stomach expresses joy by growling in a timely manner. Victor glances down at it. Yuuri can’t be fucked to care.

“It’s my turn to do the taking care of you, yes, Yuuri~?” Victor hums, his accent poured over his voice in a way that Yuuri _knows_ is intentional.

“Puppy,” Yuuri whines, sagging into his chest. Victor’s arms are around him instantly, rubbing his back. “Give me a shower and a meal and you can do whatever you want with me.”

There’s an appreciative, giggling sigh beside them followed by Russian in Mila’s girlish voice. Yuuri’s Russian is just enough to get the gist of what she just said, all genuine innocence.

_“He calls you puppy? How cute. Do you call him kitten?”_

“She’s sixteen,” Yuuri hisses in warning. Victor’s chest shakes with a suppressed laugh.

“Yuuri can be shy like a kitty,” Victor muses in English. “But I do not think _kotyonok_ suits him.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, turning out of Victor’s embrace and ducking his head politely at Mila, relieving her of his duffle. It is not light. He feels bad now that she had to carry it and stumbles through an apology and a thank you in Russian. Victor sweeps it out of his hands and swing it over his shoulder and snatches up Yuuri’s suitcase as well.

“Vicchan,” Yuuri tsks, making a grab for one of the items. Victor bumps him away gently and leans down to drop into Yuuri’s ear: “This puppy will guide his master home now.” He’s tall and unassuming a second later, leaving Yuuri flustered through his exhaustion. – “Mila! Keys?”

Mila lights up and roots in her pocket to find a keyring, which she shakes happily. Victor’s pink Cadillac convertible is finally getting the mileage it deserves.

* * *

 


	2. Georgi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri struggles to adjust. Victor tries his best. Georgi is in the wrong place wrong time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I moved. I don't have wifi, so this got rather long because I had to wait until i could be in a place and wifi and so i wrote a lot. If you haven't read Dog People and r reading this, there's a lot of backstory stuff.
> 
> there's a lot of sex in this chapter. it's all enthusiastically consensual but blatantly used to cope with stress. mental health stuff talked about. victor uses the word 'crazy' to refer to himself.

 

* * *

 

[Yuuri with his head cradled in a pair of sharply muscled naked thighs, cucumbers over his eyelids while a slender hand wields a flat plastic applicator, slathering on a thick, light blue rubber face mask. “I feel like you’re mummifying me, Vicchan.”]

**672,002 views**

**v-nikiforov** Giving Yuuri his Extra Special Sexy Spa Day Treatment after his long flight. You can book me for 100,000 Yuuri-kisses !!! He has to approve ;)

  
**christophe-ge** 100,000 Yuuri-kisses? I get to kiss Yuuri 100k times and then you give me a facial? ;) ;) im booking you now!  
**Phichit+chu** I think I can afford that…  
**v-nikiforov** @ **christophe-ge** NO. Yuuri has to give ME 100k kisses and then you can get your facial  >:o  
**y-katsuki** just in: yuuri-kisses economy crashed. All currency is worthless. Trust me. I worked in finances.  
**mila-mifa-mere** okay but how did the mask go?  
**ciaomua** im with @ **mila-mifa-mere** …what brand is that?

The first day vanishes with long hours bathing and Victor stuffing him full of coffee and cakes and cock. Yuuri’s both full and empty, cleaned out and eager for the absolute embrace of having a man inside him. Yuuri hadn’t landed in Russia planning to bounce around in Victor’s lap, but as the hours passed, Victor beautiful and doting, Victor playing with his fingers and smiling boyishly, flirting like the young lover he is – It’s all Yuuri can do not to eat him whole. He wants to fuck. He wants Victor’s blushing, blissful face and his generous cock and the urgent drive of his hips.

They couple in the odd hours of the early morning, slightly frantic but not rushed. There’s an absolute disregard for time in Victor’s – their – bed. They kiss in reunion, covering each other in the shape of longing mouths; any and all flesh is sucked on; licked; noses and lips are nipped; asses are spanked; Yuuri is eagerly spreading himself for Victor who whimpers adorably when he slips first slowly then in a pitch into Yuuri’s gluttonous body.

“I missed you. I missed you, Yuuri, solnyshka, God,” Victor pants to him, serious and high. Yuuri’s folded in half, thighs heavy over Victor’s shoulders. Victor looks broader. He’s still growing. The idea excites Yuuri as he notices it. Maybe they’ll last for years, and he alone will know the growing strength of Victor’s body, feel it’s slowly expanding against him in sleep.

Encased in the latex of a condom, Victor moves inside of him like a delicious toy. “Show me,” Yuuri has only to breathe. He braided Victor’s hair himself, after they’d soaked together, and he takes the rope now in his hand like a lead, dragging Victor in for a rocky kiss, plunging his tongue inside Victor’s moaning mouth in mimicry of their bodies. “I missed you too, Vicchan. You feel so good. You’re being so good to me. This is – you’re – perfect.”

Victor’s eyes are open, pebble-black in the lowlight. He holds Yuuri’s gaze, breathing shallowly from his mouth; they both hold their breaths, bright-eyed, listening to the bed creak, the snap of flesh meeting. Victor kisses him firmly and hoists Yuuri’s hips higher, crunching over him. They must be ugly from the outside, two people trying to cave into each other.

Yuuri moans at the angle and Victor paws at him, thrusts harder, makes promises into his neck. “Going to take care of you, make you feel so good. Like this? Like this? Yuuri?”

“Good,” Yuuri laughs, delighted, grinding against him. “Good, yeah, good. So good.”

Victor’s already grunting into his shoulder, getting rabbity. He’d been so cute, so patient when Yuuri had sat down on his cock, all eager hands and teasing. It’s been awhile, rolling around, pulling away just to make Victor drag him back. Pushing Victor down and riding him, both of them pinching nipples and tickling sides, both their hands on Yuuri’s cock where he leaked just from the sensation of clenching around Victor.

Yuuri wants him to finish first. He wants – “want to feel you come, Puppy.

A gasp punches out of Victor, a hot gust over Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri squeezes his eyes and squeezes his ass and turns his head, holding Victor’s face down to his neck—he starts to suck a bruise immediately, -- and latches his mouth onto Victor’s earlobe. Victor squeals, jerking into him harshly, once, staking his cock into Yuuri, before the desire for friction has him moving frantically as Yuuri tonguefucks him.

“Yuuri! Yuuri – I –mmm, ah , Yuuri – fuck fuck..ha—”

It’s only because he’s driving Yuuri to his own peaking pleasure, orgasm drawing tight at the base of his spine, in his balls, that Yuuri has to relinquish his attack with his own high gasps – then Victor’s wrestling him, kissing him hungrily, laughing gayly into his mouth in pleasure, in admiration. Yuuri allows this until he can get a grip on the back of Victor’s sweaty neck and pull him off. Victor goes readily enough after his initial resistance, submitting with his head down beside Yuuri’s, allowing Yuuri to unwind him with his tongue, giving over to open-mouthed sobs of spine-twisting pleasure.

Listening to Victor, feeling him, smelling him, tasting him – Yuuri’s outside of himself, knowing only Victor. He feels it when Victor comes, sharp quick jabs then a shuddering stillness. Yuuri’s holds him by the back of the neck, kisses his temple. Only his hips move, he’s not sure he could stop, milking him, pulling Victor into him a few more times before Victor groans low and long and slumps backwards, unbending Yuuri slowly. He slips down between Yuuri’s thighs where h’s made his bed all night and without pause, sucks Yuuri’s near-to-burst cock into his mouth and bobs his head, lips tight, cheeks hollow, single-minded. Yuuri comes almost instantly, half into Victor’s mouth, half over the underside of his jaw when he pulls off.

They sleep a few hours, summer sun rising far earlier than anyone needs for it to be up. But they rise, disgusting and sore and inseparable.

Sex is the easiest part of being there.

 

In the days that follow, they have sex several times a day. Victor fucks Yuuri a few more times but Yuuri doesn’t return the favor, only because Victor wants it so badly that it delights him to withhold that pleasure. Every frolic where Victor’s denied, teased open with fingers then pleasured some other way,, only seems to stoke him to new heights of adoration; he worships Yuuri’s cock almost constantly, kisses Yuuri’s feet and thighs, cuddles needily. He’s by no means unsatisfied, but it serves them both to keep Victor wanting. Because.

Because.

Because it’s the only thing Yuuri has a grip on.

He misses Japan. He misses Phichit. He misses his parents and Mari even though he’s skyped with them more times now than he used to back in Fukuoka. He misses familiar food and his familiar grocery store, the familiar bus stops.

Victor’s apartment is nice, but it’s not his. The only time Yuuri makes noise is when he’s having sex. Otherwise, he sneaks around, cautious, trying not to disturb anything, not let the cabinets squeak or the dishes clink.

“Is it okay if—“

“You don’t have to ask for permission, Yuuri. You live here now.” Victor smiles at him like he’s charmed; Yuuri makes himself make a smoothie even though Victor doesn’t want any. Makes himself drink it even though Victor’s painting his toenails, one foot in Yuuri’s lap, lacquer drying. Victor huffs in displeasure when Yuuri, finishing his impression of a meal, immediately gets to his feet to wash, dry, and put away his cup. There’s dishes in the sink from Victor, ones that’ll be gotten to at the end of the day, or the next.

Yuuri does them in the morning, erases the traces of living. Victor yawns his thanks and hugs Yuuri from behind, mumbling sleepy Russian into his neck, kissing softly over lingering red marks.

He goes from worried to amused to worried again when Yuuri’s attempt at an hour’s run turns into a two hour run when Yuuri gets lost. Now he’s quick to remind Yuuri to take his phone from then on; Yuuri bitterly uses the GPS more often than admits. Back in Japan, it was Victor who had struggled to learn basic Japanese, Yuuri feeding him word after word until he had a pleasant mouthful of sentences. Now it’s Victor who cheers Yuuri on when Yuuri stumbles in trying to order his own food and gracefully corrects the mistakes for the waiter.

Victor smiles and smiles and smiles, and Yuuri tries not to make any noise except in bed. He loves when Victor smiles. He wants to do all he can to make Victor smile, to keep him moving an animated. If he hadn’t been there in that hotel room in Boston, privileged to Victor’s internal anguish, his crying and yelling and rupturing – if he hadn’t seen him in drunken tears or sober righteous anger, he’d n ever suspect anything of Victor’s worries. Not with how he smiles. Yuuri feels like a spy peering into his cracks, sniffing out his psyche. He feels like one man trying to hold back the ocean as his anxieties slowly surge forward, held at bay only by the white bright of Victor’s smiles.

The five days of adjustment come and go in a blur of dining out, fucking, and being led by the hand by an over-eager Victor. Then, he’s in the dance studio, a three story stone building with an omnipresence of mirrors, trendy hung lights, its own smoothie bar, logo-emblazoned merchandise, and a not unimpressive clientele. Yuuri’s co-teaching for the first month under a scrubbed-clean blond woman named Anna. He dutifully follows her on instagram as per Phichit’s advice.

After the first month, once he has a hang of the place and exposure to enough people on the studio’s list, he’ll open a slot for his own class. He’s contracted for six months with a fixed pay regardless of class enrollment. But, assuming he does well and assuming he sticks around, everything will change. It’s limbo for now, financially sufficient but disquieting.

Victor picks him up from the studio, his car obscene in the narrow lot, his glow obscene too. Yuuri has only just begun to understand that Victor is noteworthy even outside of the rink. It’s one thing to research him and see him modeling, doing ads, posing on cars or drinking Coca-Cola, young and glamorous. It’s another to be in the country that birthed him, raised him, praises him. He is a celebrity, status sure to grow with each new skating season. He’s famous.

“Oh, wow,” Anna, and a few others gush when Victor waves at Yuuri and comes bounding across the parking lot. Yuuri blushes when Victor immediately wraps an arm around him and sticks out a hand for a round of introductions. Yuuri doesn’t speak; there’s an overflow of Russian, name after name and this and that. They must stand outside of the studio for fifteen minutes before Victor finally notices Yuuri’s tense polite smile and distant silence.

“We must be going,” Victor says in sudden English, giving Yuuri a squeeze. Yuuri has no idea how Victor can announce a departure so simply, so abruptly, but he’s grateful so sink into the passenger seat of the Cadillac and buckle up for life’s sake. “Sorry,” Victor apologizes, hands on the wheel, eyes on Yuuri. “You know me! I get trapped talking.”

“You don’t like it,” Yuuri mumbles, outside of himself, trying to go into Victor’s mouth behind his teeth. The bottom ones are so narrow and crooked, but he’s lucky; only the top row shows, and those are as even and prefect as fresh printer paper.

“Ah,” Victor shrugs, dims. The cartoon quality of his brightness settles into something touchable; Yuuri rests a hand on his thigh. “But they’re your new fellows. It is polite. Did you make friends?” He disappears himself into Yuuri now. They are quite the pair.

Instead of saying yes or no (it’s a no), Yuuri carefully summarizes his day. It is all fact. It is almost like talking about himself. He says “everyone speaks a lot of Russian. I must become conversational quickly.”

He does not say “I’m sure they were talking about me and wondering how the hell I got here, someone who has never taught and has never, ever danced professionally. How I am only here because I’m dating Victor Nikiforov, and because I know the right people. They must see that I’m a fake, that I will disappear once this internet fame nonsense goes away. I will be gone in six months, and they will be glad they never took my class.”

Because Yuuri doesn’t sa anything, Victor says: “You’ll learn. We can practice tonight. Do you want to go out?”

Yuuri doesn’t, and he doesn’t say yes immediately, and Victor’s watching him carefully because he’s not a total idiot. He swings them around to the grocery store and they buy wine and a prepared dinner so he can spend his evening focuses on kissing Yuuri into softness and sighs.

 

 

Mila spends the summer catching up on her schooling. She does well enough during the season, keeping on top of everything, but now she’s trying to get ahead. She’s going to enter the senior division this year and she wants to have as much of her studies done as possible. Literature and languages are easy enough, the books and assignments physically small enough for her to carry along, to read and study outside of her dormitory. The math book that weighs as much as her head? Not so much. Plus, it’s hard.

She mentions this to Victor who mentions this to Yuuri who says, without assuming anything, “I’m good at math,” so Victor mentions this to Mila who mentions that she could use help, but only if Yuuri isn’t _too_ good at math. Her summer tutor, who tutors in a big group sessions with the other skaters her age, is too smart and not good at teaching. Victor starts to mention this to Yuuri who puts down his cup of tea and says flatly “Vicchan, tell her to come over tomorrow night with her book.”

Victor goes from elated to dismayed when Mila installs herself at the kitchen table with a spread of papers, Yuuri at her side, tapping a pen to his lips and adjusting his glasses and shyly “davai, davai.” Victor sits on the counter, pretending to sip tea, pretending he wants to brush up on his calculus (did he _ever_ learn calculus? Mila is so smart. She’ll probably go to college after she retires and have a normal-person career) when really he’s fantasizing that Yuuri is his teacher and he’s in an extra tutor class because he’s purposefully failing his classes so that Katsuki-sensei will work with him after hours and then he will crawl on the floor and put his face between Katsuki-sensei’s thighs and give his own special lesson. Then Katsuki-sensei will throw him down on the table and spread him apart and fuck him, saying a trite porno line like “earn your extra credit, pretty boy,” and Victor will be overflowing with come by the end of it. The whole affair finishes with Katsuki-sensei writing on his spanked-red asscheeks a meager grade in marker, telling him he has to work harder next time. Then the vision ends with the suggestion of a sequel. Many sequels.

He has to run into the bedroom saying he forgot to call someone about something and glare at his erection, reminding himself: “Mila is over, Mila is over.”

Wow, Yuuri makes him so horny, it’s laughable.

He tries it, after Mila leaves. Yuuri’s sitting at the table drawing some cartoon hamster, apparently to send a picture to Phichit. Victor stops alphabetizing the spice rack and slowly gets to his knees, then to all fours. It takes a moment for the new shape to register in the corner of Yuuri’s eye. His boyfriend looks as him placidly.

“Are you playing dog again?”

“Only if you like that, sensei.” Victor bites the tip of his tongue, trying not to giggle even as his face goes hot. Yuuri blinks hard, scrunches his face; he does laugh.

“What are you doing, Vicchan?”

“I want to be the teacher’s pet.” Victor crawls over his banged-up shiny wood floors, glee surging through him when Yuuri pushes out his chair and turns towards him. His face is neutral aside from the red rising on his cheeks, but his eyes are dark and heavy as he assess his prowling lover.

Yuuri lets Victor get almost close enough to kiss his knees when he stops him with a socked foot to the shoulder, pushing him back into a kneel. Yuuri very rarely touches him with his feet unless he’s just washed, and the confidence of the gesture, the strength of it, makes arousal settle into the thrush of Victor’s groin. Victor turns his head into the touch, kissing the strip of ankle revealed between small sock and the rise of Yuuri’s pantleg.

“Teacher’s pets are always the best students, the most well-behaved.” Yuuri arches an eyebrow, teasing him. Victor presses another kiss to his ankle bone, delighted to be played with. Yuuri’s played with him whenever Victor’s wanted since his arrival in Russia. It’s like constant fire, burning Victor in the middle of the day with want and desire.

“That’s me.”

“I think you’re a bit too presuming, Puppy. And you’re a terrible student.”

 _“Yuuri,”_ Victor whines in mock-hurt. He rests his cheek against Yuuri’s ankle, reaching up to hold it. Yuuri rolls the arch of his foot into Victor’s shoulder, then scrapes his foot down his chest to press against his spread crotch, without malice, without intent. It’s enough to make Victor wiggle and plead with his eyes. “Don’t be a cruel master,” he whines.

“Ah, emotional blackmail!” Yuuri cries in exaggerated outrage, putting one hand over his hurt. Victor laughs and drops his head. “You come for my body and my heart, Vicchan.”

“You sound like me,” Victor snorts.

“Then I must sound like a smart-mouthed boy.” Yuuri taps his foot on the head of Victor’s penis, rubbing it gingerly, before he withdraws and pats his thighs. “Get up here, Puppy. I can’t kiss you when you’re down on the floor.”

“If you tried hard enough,” Victor says mildly, but he’s climbing into Yuuri’s lap swiftly, pecking him on the mouth, humming, then kissing him more deeply, Yuuri’s hands sliding up his back. “So…sensei?”

“You’re so weird,” Yuuri huffs. “Yuuri, Vicchan. I only want to hear Yuuri when you’re being made to feel good.”

 _“Oh_ ,” Victor breathes, the words corkscrewing down, opening a valve of liquidy warmth. _“Yuuri_.”

Yuuri pulls him closer, spread out of his thighs, and guides Victor into a helpless grind against his taut stomach.

Now that Yuuri’s at work, they don’t have sex in the middle of the day, but Victor will be damned if he doesn’t make up for it in the evening.

 

Proximinty to Russian and friends of Victor’s leads to the inevitable.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says one day, in the middle of a coffeeshop, trying to get Victor’s attention. “I can’t read the specials….Vicchan? Can you read the specials to me?”

It happens five more times until Yuuri notices his slips. He hears Vitya Vitya Vitya whenever Mila or Yakov is around, whenever people want to speak like they know Victor, fond over him. It’s in his ear. It’s on his tongue. Victor always smiles, small and shy, and holds his hands when it happens. So it keeps happening.

Vicchan, Vitya, Puppy. Victor is the easiest language to master.

 

Russian is not. But Yuuri is lucky that dance is its own language, one he does know. He speaks best in body. Music. Motion. He learns how to say “more like…” and “watch me, please,” and “one more time.” He’s mostly doing hip-hop and shuffle step in this class, his dancers on the young side. There are a few, Alexi, Cheng, and Moya, who know ballet and like contemporary style. They like him, always reaching out and wanting to show him things. They smile at him, even though they are not the smiling sort of people, because Yuuri constantly smiles. His is nervous. Theirs is reciprocal. They all look like clowns desperate to be understood.

Yuuri hates using English, he realizes. He hates it here, when it makes him feel different, from others, from himself. It isn’t like in America, when people wanted him to speak English, would look at him with their pinched mouths when he rolled his Rs or slid his tongue too much on a noise.

“How did you tolerate speaking English your whole time in Japan?” he has to ask Victor one night, finally leaking his fears. They’re playing video games, racing cars and crashing into each other on purpose, the cps already done and leaving them behind to digitally annoy each other into oblivion.

“The same way you probably do when you travelled for work. Thank you, colonialism.” Victor shoots a shell at him and speeds ahead. “But, I speak English all the time around skaters.”

“No,” Yuuri corrects softly. Victor finishes, Yoshi 7th as he rolls across the checkered finish line. The little dinosaur mopes, but so does Yuuri’s Toad who doesn’t even have the dignity to finish the race. “How did you tolerate making everyone else speak English?”

“Ah,” Victor says thoughtfully. He discards his controller and turns on the couch, pulling his knees up as he faces Yuuri. “So that’s what’s been bothering you? It’s okay, Yuuri. No one expects you to know Russian in ten days. You’re getting better every day. Soon, we’ll have a bilingual household!” Victor cheers, flourishing his hands delightedly at the prospect. They land on Yuuri’s arm and find their way to his hands, holding them. Yuuri doesn’t have time to open his mouth to ask if his anxiety is so obvious, to correct Victor that no, the language is only a fraction of what’s bothering him, to apologize – Victor is talking again.

“Although, I’ve been so distracted, I haven’t worked on any Japanese since I left Japan. Ah~ damn, I feel like I remember nothing. It’s been almost two months. How did it go away so quickly? Now I want to go back. Can we go to Hasetsu before I start my new season? I’ll fly us both. With the rink, Yakov cannot protest. Maybe some others might want to come. Yakov will stop complaining if we let your Mama feed him. Your Papa can drink and play cards with him. Lilia would like the springs…. Maybe…okay she might not, but we can try. Would your studio let you off work?”

“That sounds nice. Maybe,” Yuuri says easily, returning Victor’s squeeze. It does. He can look forward to that, even if he doubts he’ll be able to take off from his new jobs in two months’ time. He’ll deal with that later – who knows, he might be so miserable he’ll quit and fly home. Hell, the studio might say good riddance. Victor might – “Let’s play a different map.”

He thinks Victor’s forgotten the original thread of conversation, but as he sends Victor spinning off the edge of rainbow road, Victor says, “Write down phrases you want to know and I’ll translate them. I’ll make some too, for Japanese. I want to get better so I can speak more to your Mama and Papa when we skype. We can study when Mila is here studying.”

Yuuri feels bad for knocking him over the edge now. He blushes, warmed through by the thoughtfulness and dedication. Victor drives straight off the edge when Yuuri leans over to kiss his cheek. “You’re so smart, Vitya. Thank you. I love you.”

They don’t finish that race.

 

Victor is not allowed to pick Yuuri up from dance because he causes too much of a fuss. Victor respects this. That’s why he shows up incognito (a wig this time with itchy blunt bangs, topped with a beanie) and stands in the very back of the room. How can he not?

Anna walks in first through the side door of the studio, followed by his darling Yuuri. Yuuri’s lips are moving, and Victor knows exactly what he’s muttering to himself. The chatter of the class lowers but doesn’t cease, the dancers clearing back from the floor towards the mirrored walls in preparation. Victor wedges against the mirrors, lifting on his toes to maintain a clear sight of Yuuri. Anna gestures to the floor, nodding slightly in encouragement.

“Is he teaching today?”

“Oh god, is he doing choreography? In those tights? I’m not going to learn shit with his ass in my face all day.”

“Close your mouth, you’re drooling.”

“Shut up, I want to hear him.”

Victor smiles; Yuuri was right. They do whisper about him, but it’s not what he suspects.

Yuuri scans the faces without seeing them, looks back at Anna, then forward again. He smiles, like he’s breaking the ice, before taking a breath that fills his grand chest. “Good afternoon, everyone,” he declares in stiff but correct Russian, the pronunciation of it shaped out of Victor’s accent, “I will be leading today’s session. I will work very hard to give clear instructions. Please, find a partner.” Yuuri bobs his head in punctuation; everyone can hear his sigh.

Victor has to hold back an applause. Yuuri nailed it. He’d practiced all night and even this morning, when Victor asked if he wanted eggs, Yuuri had rattled off those lines.

“Do you think Victor would mind if I stole him?” someone whispers.

“I’d kill you and make it look like an accident,” Victor answers aloud. Whoops. Those were meant to be inside thoughts.

“Huh?” The person in front of him turns to eye him. “Who are you?”

“No one!” Victor smiles innocently. But it doesn’t earn him any kindness. People disperse around him, pairing up, and he knows that any second now Yuuri will come over and ask about why he’s not in a pair and then he’ll get scolded. Which isn’t a bad thing, except it might actually upset Yuuri, which is a bad thing. But Victor just wants to make sure he’s doing okay because he _hasn’t_ been doing okay. Victor’s not oblivious – or not anymore.

Yuuri’s been sleeping poorly, tossing and turning and playing on his phone all night, slow and lethargic come morning. He’s been quiet as all hell, seeming to only open up when it’s just the two of them. And lately, around Mila. He’s lonely, though, that much is becoming clear. Maybe not for people so much as community. After Hasetsu…this is why Victor hadn’t wanted to ask him to come. Seeing Yuuri around his family, his hometown, even his familiarity with all the workers at stores in Fukuoka—now he’s here, with nothing but a reputation and a boyfriend with an even bigger reputation.

All this is running through Victor’s head, which is why it takes him a minute to realize that he has a partner, someone his size standing half in front of him.

“Georgi?”

Sure enough, Georgi is thin-lipped beside him, giving him a baleful look. “Vitya, you better hope he doesn’t see you.”

“Shh,” Victor hushes, taking another step behind Georgi. Everyone at the rink heard _all about_ Yuuri forbidding Victor from coming to the studio because he’s just _too_ beautiful and _too_ distracting and _too_ much trouble. “Why are you here? Since when? Are you my spy?”

“Ha,” Georgi snorts, elbowing him in the stomach, not gently. Victor winces and rubs it with a pout. “No. Anya.”

“Anya?”

“Anya.”

Georgi points to a girl their age who looks familiar– Victor knows he should know her. Better to play along – “Oh. Anya!”

“Shh,” Georgi hisses this time, turning to smother Victor’s mouth with his hand. “Keep your big mouth shut. She already knows I’m in this class, but I told her it was to learn new move for my skating.”

Victor holds up his hands in surrender, eyes wide, the synthetic strands of the bangs stabbing him in eye and making them water, his lids twitching spasmodically. Georgi frowns and releases him. When they both fix their attention forward, they’re met with Yuuri’s very very unimpressed stare.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Yuuri asks in that same practiced Russian. It’s too polite but his tone suggests his displeasure. Oh no. Now Victor really _isn’t_ teacher’s pet. He is a bad student and a misbehaving boy. 

“Sorry, Yura,” Georgi apologizes, waving his hand. Yuuri flicks his eyes at Victor, squinting, but Georgi’s obscuring him. Once Yuuri’s attention shifts, Victor jabs Georgi in the side with his finger, making him jump, and presses close to him.

“ _Zhora_ ,” Victor purrs. “Who are you calling _Yura_? My _Yuuri_?”

“We’re friends.”

Huh. Not as far as Victor knows. Are they friends? “He likes Yuuri. We had a _whole entire_ conversation about it.” Lie. Half-lie. But hearing _Yura_ out of Georgi’s mouth sounds so wrong. Even Victor doesn’t call him Yura. Yuuri is not Yura, something Victor learned himself. Yura is not song-sweet like Yuuri, not a long lilt that Victor adores, that is Yuuri’s name.

“What’s wrong with Yura? It’s cute.”

“It’s wrong,” Victor huffs, heated. He doesn’t know why, but it’s wrong. And when did they become friends? Georgi? Has he been in this class for awhile? Why didn’t Yuuri say anything? Why doesn’t Yuuri say anything? “Don’t—don’t take away his name.”

“What – his name? – what are you talking about?” Georgi asks in baffled irritation.

 _“Puppy._ ”

Victor snaps to clarity, breath catching in his throat. Yuuri isn’t near them, standing with a pair of dancers a few feet away, but he’s looking at them, lips stung with displeasure. A wicked curl hooks into Victor, a drunken humiliation, a quickening of his blood. An urgent need to make amends, to make up for his disobedience, overpowers him.

“Sorry mas—“ Yuuri’s eyes flare wide, struck, and Victor claps his hands loudly and waves the word away. “Sensei! Sorry, Katsuski-sensei.”

A snicker croaks from Georgi that quickly crescendos into a whole toadish chorus of laughter. Yuuri’s face is blistering red and Victor’s in so much trouble.

“Chris and Phichit were right,” Georgi howls, clapping Victor on the shoulder for support. His mission of protecting Victor’s identity has vanished. “You do play those kind of games together. _Puppy!”_

“Out,” Yuuri snaps in English, squaring his shoulders, chin tucked low but eyes dark and glinting from behind his glasses. “Both of you. Get out.”

“Yuuri,” Victor supplicates, stepping towards him. For a hug or a kiss or to grovel at his feet.

“Smart-mouthed,” Yuuri scolds. “Both of you. If you want to talk, go to the coffeeshop.” That’s an order. Victor nods in compliance and grabs Georgi’s wrist, dragging him along.

“Bye-bye, sensei!” Georgi chortles, waving his hand. Victor’s never saying that word again. Georgi ruined an entire word for him. Asshole.

As they leave, Anya asks loudly, “Was that Nikiforov?”

 

 

“I knew you were kinky bastards,” Georgi says once they hit the pavement, the sun blazing white. Victor goes blind, eyes not evolutionarily equipped for such a rapid change, and they stumble together. “No wonder you mope so much when he’s not around.”

“He’s my favorite person in the whole world, of course I mope,” Victor snips, letting Georgi go and marching boldly across the street, barely checking both ways. He can’t be so unfortunate as to be hit by a car on top of what just happened.

Georgi runs after him, picking up Victor’s hand to swing in wide gay arcs. Victor shakes him loose. His wig is crooked, his scalps sweating. He wants to take it all off because he’s suffocating his beautiful hair but he has a wig cap on and it’ll be all too ugly to fuss with in a public bathroom. God! It’s good he didn’t get hit by a car, the paramedics would have left him for dead should they have seen.

“So, Puppy, what do you—“

Victor rounds on Georgi as they enter the coffee shop, stopping him chest-to-chest, face eerily cheerful. Victor has a way of going pretty as a doll, as something purposeful made by human hands to please the eye; his pretty, dead-smile that looks so good when you don’t look at it too long. It freaks Georgi out.

“Zhora, if you ever say that word again, I swear I will destroy your entire life. I will make you unlovable and talentless. Do you hear me?”

“Da.”

“Good boy,” Victor croons, patting his cheek and pinching him. “Now order your coffee and tell me how you and Yuuri are friends.”

It turns out, Georgi’s been in his class for some time now, having asked Yuuri privately if he could join in hopes of dancing his way into Anya’s heart. Yuuri didn’t tell Victor because Georgi asked him not to, knowing Victor wouldn’t be able to keep his big mouth shut. Even Mila doesn’t know, which makes Victor feel a little better. Despite being a little put out, it’s good news. Yuuri’s making a space here, no matter how silly it is to make it with Georgi. Ah, why couldn’t he be more chummy with Anna and the other dancers?

Then Georgi has to know why Victor was there in a terrible disguise; so went Victor explaining the Russian language barrier and being worried and wanting to make sure Yuuri was doing okay.

“He’s a grown man. He’s older than us,” Georgi frowns.

“He’s shy and in a foreign country. He doesn’t want to worry me but that makes me more worried,” Victor admits. “Yuuri came here to be with me…but,” Victor looks down at his half-empty cup, and says no more.

“It was a big move,” Georgi says carefully. Victor sighs. He’s the picture of ridiculousness with that disguise and such a sad look, like a clown. “It’s going to be hard.”

“I don’t want Yuuri to feel alone,” Victor whispers. “I just want to take care of him.”

“No one finds stalking endearing.”

“I wasn’t stalking him,” Victor sputters, animated once more. “I just – it was – you’re the stalker! You’re in that class to woo Anya. That’s worse.”

“Who’s the one in a wig?” Georgi picks up his phone and deftly snaps a picture of Victor, scowling over his cup. “Ha -- blunt bangs make your nose look even bigger. How do you land any jumps with that thing?” Georgi turns his screen to show Victor. Victor wilts into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose self-consciously.

“It’s not big,” he counters weakly. “At least it isn’t your chin. Besides, everyone can tell my cock is huge with one look.”

“What does it say about my Russian,” Yuuri cuts in softly, sighing as he sits down beside Victor, “that of all that, I heard ‘my cock is huge.’” Yuuri plants his elbow on the table and drops his cheek into it, smooshing his face.

“Yuuri! It means that you are my very lucky boyfriend,” Victor charms, covering his surprise and the heat on the back of his neck. He’s glad that his huge cock was the point in the conversation that Yuuri joined them.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Tea, please. Cold and fruity. Thank you, Vitya.” Yuuri’s eyes are shut and he isn’t smiling. Victor hovers, waiting for some indication of his mood, but Yuuri doesn’t stir so Victor slinks off to the counter, staring the whole while. Yuuri doesn’t move. Georgi makes a shrugging gesture. Victor waves his hands in a flurry at the door ‘go go go.’ Georgi nods rapidly. He has no interest in being caught in a couple’s fray.

“I will go now,” Georgi excuses, starting to rise.

“Georgi,” Yuuri says quietly, firmly, freezing the young man half-risen from his chair. “Did you know Victor would be there today?”

“No.”

Yuuri cracks a red-rimmed eye open. On a woman, the evidence of a cry would break Georgi's heart. Seeing it on a man unsettles him, like he himself is being exposed. “You can go now.”

Georgi stands up slowly and mimes decapitation at Victor as he passes. Victor stutters when he orders Yuuri the biggest iced raspberry tea on the menu and brings it to the table, ice clinking in the glass.

“How was class?” Victor asks genially, pushing the drink towards Yuuri.

Yuuri sighs, dropping his head forward to catch the straw between the delicious pout of his lips, cheeks hollowing as he sucks down a good fourth of the tea, breath painfully measured and audible from his nostrils. He smacks his lips when he pulls up for air, eyes flicking up to Victor only a moment before they drop to the table. He adjusts his already straight glasses and scratches his cheek and runs a hand over his hair, all the way to the elastic holding back his fringe.

“Less embarrassing with you gone,” he says plainly.

“I’m sorry,’ Victor says immediately, hands spread on the table. “I didn’t mean to be a distraction, or for you to see me. Georgi was being annoying and—“

“Why you were there? And dressed like…that?” Yuuri lifts his eyes enough to send clear judgment at Victor. “I told you not to come to my classes.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay!” Victor says, voice raised a little. He quiets immediately at the downward twitch of Yuuri’s mouth. “You were so nervous about introducing the class in Russian. I wanted to see how it went.”

“You couldn’t have waited till I got home to ask?” Yuuri asks in frustration.

“Would you have told me the truth if I asked?” Victor counters pointedly. Yuuri sits back in his seat, turning his face away. Victor nailed it and he knows it. “You’ve done nothing but talk in – in ah – in circles. Talking around yourself. Nothing direct. I ask how your day was, and you say ‘we did this in class’ but you don’t say ‘I had a good day.’ Or a bad day. Or nothing.”

“That’s not fair,” Yuuri argues, biting down on his straw. “You’re being too particular.”

“I am not!” Victor taps the table with his index finger in emphasis. Now that the topic is broached, he can’t stop. All the words long pent up want to jumble out of his mouth like spilled puzzle pieces. “You won’t say that you are having problems with the language, or that you miss Japan, you say everything around it. You make me guess. You cannot make me guess, leave only clues, and then get upset if I investigate.”

“Yes I can be upset,” Yuuri protests. “That was creepy. And I am not making you guess. I’m not – it’s –“ Yuuri’s face is hot and he wishes that they were in the apartment, not in a crowded coffeeplace. He’s suddenly grateful for Victor’s disguise. They could not do this if Victor looked like himself. Victor is blinding starlight. Exactly why it’s such a fuss if he comes to classes. “Sorry to cause you so much trouble,” Yuuri spits pettily.

“That is not fair,” Victor hisses, pressing his palms to the table in frustration before he sits back in his seat and crosses his arms. Anger rears up. He wants to yell. But what would that do? Maybe he will yell and Yuuri will yell to and then people will film them. Or he’ll yell and Yuuri will cry or walk out. Then they will be apologizing all day or and week. Yuuri is so stubborn and cold sometimes, shutting everyone and everything out, even his own emotions. God, he held Victor at arm’s length for so long in Japan, Victor couldn’t stand to have that coldness in his own apartment.

He reigns himself in with a bracing breath. “No. No, enough. I won’t let you avoid this. You said, you said in Japan, all the time when I was going through my stuff, ‘I won’t make you talk about it.’ But we aren’t strangers anymore. You live with me. We must talk. We are both too crazy to play games.” Victor waves a hand at his own head. “You aren’t the only person who – who has – don’t make me guess at you, Yuuri, please. I can’t bear it. I don’t think I can do that without really going crazy.”

Victor’s voice catches and he bites his jaw, jutting his chin to stave off the emotion. It scares him sometimes, how consuming Yuuri is in his mind, how much his thoughts circle back to and around Yuuri. It’s exhilarating, having someone like this in his life. Yuuri excites him to the point that he feels out of control with the sensation. It’d come back to him, after weeks of lethargy and depression. But now, it’s havoc in his head. He knows it would be more wild, would be him trying to elope wild, if he wasn’t working on it.

Yuuri’s selfishness hits him full force and he blushes in shame and regret.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri apologies sincerely. He reaches across the table with one hand, palm up. Victor takes his hand readily, squeezing. He nods. Yuuri nods back. “I’m sorry, Vicchan. You’re right. I – I’m not – I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Thanks. I know you didn’t. But you do.” It feels like both a burden and a gift. Having someone to fuss over, to think of, makes his world feel bigger. “So…talk to me?” Victor reaches with his other hand and then they pull each other closer towards the middle of the table, tipping their heads together to whisper comfortingly. “Let me in, Yuuri.”

Yuuri nods, struggling for a moment before he explains himself quietly.  “I had an anxiety attack at the airport, about all this…I didn’t want to come. It felt like a mistake…and I don’t think I’ve really lost that sensation…But, I want to be here. I promise I do,” Yuuri quickly adds, squeezing Victor’s hands, offering a shaky but reassuring mile. Victor matches it, trying not to be swallowed by guilt. “It’s just a lot. I quit my job, I’m trying to be a dancer again, I moved to another country with a new boyfriend. We’re going to get a dog. Everything’s happening all at once and I just…I don’t know. I’m scared.”

“Scared of what, solnyshka?” Victor encourages, rubbing his thumb over Yuuri’s knuckles.  

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. He seems himself in miniature climbing a great tower of fine porcelain china. Teacups with delicate flowers and gold trim. He can’t rest against them, they’re all filled with steaming hot drink and he’s burning himself little by little in his ascent, aiming fo the top. Too high to go back down, too far to quit. When his tiny tired self reaches the top, how delicately must he stand not to crash the tower down in boiling tea and cutting shards.

“I have so much to lose if I mess up. I’m going to mess up. I always mess up.”

He messed up his dance, and his last boyfriend, and even at work at the magazine. Just because it’s going okay now doesn’t mean he’s not going to ruin it all, disappoint everyone. Lose everything.

“Everyone messes up. The world doesn’t end. I messed up so so badly, Yuuri, you know that. But it’s okay now.”

“Yes,” Yuuri nods. “But I’m not you. You’re – you’re spectacular. I can’t _stop_ worrying about it. I don’t…ugh,” Yuuri breaks their handhold and buries his face in his hands. He hates this. It’s so tedious. He knows exactly what this is, but still it doesn’t banish the feelings. “I’ll call my psychiatrist or something. You can’t fix it.”

“Yuuri,” Victor chides, propping his chin into his hand. “I don’t have to be able to fix it to want to know, nor for it to be, uhm, beneficial…to share your concerns. Sharing is caring. We are in this together.”

“This is what I get for sending you all those mental health forum links, isn’t it?” Yuuri humors. He lifts his head up and fixes his glasses. Now that he’s said it aloud, with Victor comforting him…the distress has diminished. It’s still there, making him race inside his own head, but, damn, he did forget how good it feels to share.

“You made me promise to read them. And I do see a therapist every week. Do you want me to ask Mrs. Petrova for a recommendation for another doctor here?”

“No, I want to keep mine. I’ve had him for years and I want to be able to speak Japanese.” Yuuri settles back into his chair and sucks down his tea thoughtfully, seeming calmer, or at least distracted. After a minute of mutual staring, Yuuri has to ask. “Where the hell did you get that wig?”

“Costume store!” Victor says proudly, fluffing it. “Does it make my nose look big?”

“Your face makes your nose look big,” Yuuri replies instantly, mouth tilting up, faintly but his eyes crinkle. “Bring it here, you ridiculous boy.”

Victor happily complies and leans across the table for Yuuri to deliver a kiss on the tip. “I can’t believe you called me Puppy in the middle of the studio,” he teases. “You better be careful or I’ll get hard in front of everyone.”

Yuuri groans instantly and covers his face with his hand. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure if it was you or not, and I didn’t want to call out to you. I thought it’d be more subtle than your name. Plus Victoria Li goes by Vitya but Vicchan is so obvious too, and, oh god...”

Victor laughs, untroubled. “Chris, Phichit, and now Georgi, I think are conspiring about our sex lives,” he leers, accepting the turn in topic. He loves this topic. “I wonder what they think my master will do to his bad little puppy?”

“I bet only Chris knows that you’re an insufferable masochist,” Yuuri recovers, absolutely aware that Victor wants him to do something. He knows exactly what too. Mind turning over the thought, Yuuri looks around the coffeeshop. Despite their little spat, no one cares about them. Anonymity is a wonder. No matter where they go, at least _one_ person knows Victor.

“Chris is easy. You already tell him too much. He’ll think that I’ll have you crawl around on your hands and knees, collared and leashed, and make you suck me,” Yuuri says in a low tone, face pink but neutral, eyes obsidian and hooked into Victor’s gaze. Only he has the privilege to make Victor blush and gasp as he does now. It’s remarkable how easy it is to say things like this when he knows Victor loves to hear them. “Georgi, hmm, German sex dungeon. Uhhh, whips and chains.” That makes Victor laugh.

“And Phichit?” Victor _has_ to know.

“Well,” Yuuri pauses. Victor thinks it’s for dramatic effect but it’s really because Yuuri’s embarrassed that he’s told his friend so much about his sex life. Then again, Phichit also knew before Yuuri did that he and Victor were meant for each other. So some good comes from the over-sharing. “He’d say…that I’d make you fuck me all night. I think in his scenario, you have, uhm, a cock ring on.”

“I can do that,” Victor offers gallantly, hand sworn over his chest. “I am at your disposal.”

“Thank you very much,” Yuuri says, crisp and polite, letting his own accent roll over his words. He finishes his tea and stands up, collecting Victor’s long empty cup to dispose of as well. “Let’s go home. Do we have leftovers?”

“Huh?” Victor mentally stumbles over the sudden change in direction. “Uh, huh? No?…no.”

Good.

Yuuri sends Victor home to clean up to his preferred degree and goes out to order take-away, a place nearby the apartment where he already knows the menu. Then, he goes home. Victor greets him at the door, steamed pink and naked. Yuuri picks him up, throws him over his shoulder, takes him to bed and fucks him. All night. As slowly as possible.

Victor doesn’t know what hit him. His wildest dreams are coming true. Yuuri throws him down and pins him, kisses him, spreads his legs apart and sucks him wetly, thirsty for his cock, spits on his hole and licks him where he’s already wet and open and so empty he feels sick with it.

“What do I do with a bad puppy who loves to be punished?” Yuuri sighs, fingering Victor open methodically, cradling him close and kissing him more often than breathing.

“Anything. Everything. Whatever you want, Yuuri.” Victor squirms against him, a hand between their bodies to rub their cocks together, hips, stomachs, and chests sliding with a fresh breakout of sweat. Yuuri has one of Victor’s legs hooked practically over his shoulder as they lay facing each other.

“Should I fuck you for hours? Take you apart? Make you cry it’s so good?”

“Yes! _Yes, please_.”

Yuuri throws a whole roll of condoms onto the bed, along with an extra bottle of lube. The gesture alone almost makes Victor come. Yuuri pressing into him almost makes him come. Being watched by Yuuri, his face with a razor sharp focus as he slides inside, watching him moan at being filled, seeing how much he cherishes this, Yuuri, almost makes Victor come.

He should have when he had the chance.

They fuck joyously, rolling around, cracking jokes, biting and kissing. Yuuri spanks him playfully, taking advantage of his position buried deep inside Victor. It’s all very good and unassuming. Until Victor starts really driving against Yuuri’s cock, Yuuri stripping his dick raw with his hand.

“Close?” Yuuri asks with a smile cutting crescent beneath Victor’s ear. Long, delicate strands of hair tickle both their faces.

“Ye-yeah.”

Yuuri shoves inside him roughly, grinding deep, and takes his hand off Victor dick and pins Victor’s arms down. All movement stops, marked by Victor’s confused outcry at the denial.

He stares at the ceiling with dawning realization. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Yuuri sings cheerfully. He pulls out carefully, peels off the condom, and jerks off onto Victor’s chest. Victor gasps at the hot splashes, the sudden burst of smell. “Let me know if it ever starts hurting.” Victor gets a big fat kiss on the mouth. “What’s the most I’ve ever drawn you to the edge?”

“Three,” Victor shivers. Yuuri’s gathered his wrists into one hard locked hand. Freshly lubed fingers plunge into his hole. “F-fuck.” He laughs. He should have known.

“We’ll do four tonight, if you can make it….if _I_ can.”

Victor snorts. Yuuri has more stamina than any man should. Yuuri caresses Victor’s tight balls with his wet hand. “I bet you’ll cry.”

“Me too,” Victor agrees. Yuuri made him cry from a handjob. He’ll definitely cry if he’s being fucked. Fuck. “Fuck me,” he sighs longingly, lifting up his hips, graceful in the surrender. “Fuck me, Yuuri. See if you can keep it up long enough to take me to four.”

Another kiss, long and loving. Victor relaxes into it as best he can, but he’s throbbing, the pulse in his cock echoing in his ears. One kiss leads to many, and Victor barely notices that Yuuri isn’t stretching him anymore but instead pushing as much lube into him as possible. The next time he penetrates him, Victor can feel the wet surge, hear how he gushes.

Between the second and third come down, Yuuri fetches cold bottled water and mandarin oranges. He presses the cold bottle to the underside of Victor’s erection and almost gets kicked in the head. He makes amends by feeding Victor peeled slices of fruit, licking juice from his mouth.

On the third denial, Victor cries. Yuuri hasn’t come since the first time, and he’s shaking and whispering to Victor, petting his hair and kissing him head to toe. The fourth is a blur, and it’s debatable if they passed it. There’s no way Victor can get soft again when Yuuri stops thrusting—this time, he doesn’t even pull out. Victor’s bruised, on his ass, all around his hips and thighs, his wrists. Yuuri’s back, ass, and even a spot on his neck is bleeding, dark red under Victor’s trim nails. He won’t notice the blood and the pain until well after he’s come. It’s when Victor’s gasping sobs quiet down to nothing but hiccups does Yuuri work them back into a lather, bent over Victor; they come with their faces buried into each other’s necks, biting shoulders to muffle the murderous cries of their release.

They fall asleep almost immediately and wake up to the condom halfway up Victor’s ass. Yuuri very nearly has to use chopsticks. It’s vaguely traumatic but mostly funny. Victor sits on the toilet, pissing for centuries, feeling lube run out of his gutted ass, drunk with pleasure, drunk with exhaustion. When he falls back into bed like a dead man, Yuuri feeds him commercialized Chinese takeout one bite at a time.

It is very hard to punish him when he likes everything. It is very hard to anything but pleasure him when he’s so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from what i read, Yuri the russian name is like...the russian version of "george" or something so victor's thing is like, damn calling him yura is not his name at all. and he doesn't want to misnname yuuri.


	3. Fyo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> admittedly, this chapter is all over the place. Take what you will of it.
> 
> Makkachin, family talk, collars and accidental choking and accidental exhibitionism????

* * *

 

Day by day, it gets better. It has to. Victor has ice shows around Russia, set to glamour and dazzle his fans (and sponsors.) In preparation for his sporadic departures, he teaches Yuuri to drive his stick-shift Cadillac. It’s a…harrowing experience, to say the least. Yuuri probably should have practiced stalling out on a less expensive vehicle, but everyone, human and machine alike, survives. They’re stronger for it.

Only one of Victor’s shows lands on a day that Yuuri can attend where he stays overnight in Victor’s hotel room. Unlike the competitions, Victor doesn’t stress about the show. The routine is less jumps and more gestures, fun and carefree. It entertains; something he put together right after the season ended, in the month of waiting for Yuuri. It never ceases to amaze Yuuri, Victor’s choreographic skills. His raw talent and the drive he finds in himself, even when he can’t find the energy for anything else. Even if the song makes Yuuri close his eyes and sigh.

Death of a Bachelor.

“You think you’re cute, don’t you?” Yuuri asks him after, when Victor’s sweaty and tired from the ice, clutching flowers and a pair of panties. There were more panties on the ice. These look new. They look like they’d fit Victor.

“ _You_ think I’m cute,” Victor counters.

Yuuri does, it’s true. He thinks Victor’s more than just cute. He tells him so when they’re alone, when Victor’s attention is fixed solely on him.

The show was good and getting to see Victor perform is always a breathtaking pleasure. He’s a stranger on the ice, a man of artistry. He’s cool and powerful and stunning. Even though Yuuri watches him climb into and out of his costume, the transformation never ceases to shake him, amaze him. There’s a stadium of people roaring for Victor, supporting him, following his glow. It dwarfs Yuuri, masks his voice in anonymity. He doesn’t cheer, he doesn’t clap. He stands stunned, moved, watching Victor’s face for strain and concentration and secret smiles of elation, watching his body in fragments – the reach of a hand, the bend of a knee—until Victor coalesces once more, taught muscle teased on the edge of blades.

It’s good to watch him, to be able to support him. But, less spoken of, Yuuri doesn’t know how to speak of it, it’s good to sit in the apartment that still doesn’t feel quite like home, but is becoming one, and be alone. Yuuri drives Victor’s car and does laundry and drinks coffee on the couch, watching shows on his laptop in his underwear. He misses Victor. He doesn’t like eating alone. He takes Anna up on her offer to grab a beer and a bite. He dances at the studio all day, one day, and comes back, gnawed with exhaustion, pleased with himself. By himself, for himself, just himself. He eats dinner out, hair damp and curling around him, while he scrapes together enough Russian to make conversation with the man serving him at the bar. His newness wins him a free drink. It tastes the way beer does at the end of a long hard day: deserved.

He wants Victor there, but he’s good too, alone. It’d be better with Victor, but it’s okay. It’s okay. The thought makes him laugh. His life clicks into place. _He_ clicks into place.

When Victor comes back after his mini-tour, and he asks Yuuri “what did you do when I was gone?” Yuuri tells him: this and this and this. Victor listens, smile easing over him, relaxing into Yuuri’s arms with each little story Yuuri shares.

As for Victor, he kept Yuuri updated and had night-time phone calls with him every day he was gone. He recapped his trip anyway and showed Yuuri some videos that were too large to send over text or too private to put on instagram (Victor, privacy? Who would have thought?). The undercurrent of excitement to his speech, the rapidity that made the words fall over themselves, had Yuuri keyed into him attentively.

“-And, I didn’t tell you but –” he pauses to takes a spoonful of the strawberry gazpacho Yuuri had made, he moans a delighted _vskuno_ “—but~~~”

Yuuri waits out his dramatic pause with a smile. He makes a mental note to ask if Victor’s ever seen “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” He feels like the answer is ‘no’ because Victor would absolutely quote it more if he had. He didn’t even say anything about the gold booty shorts from Worlds. Hell, he’d do a routine to it. Oh…, should Yuuri do that to the world? …Probably.

Victor hands over his phone to Yuuri, his email pulled up on the screen.

“Victor, this is all in Russian,” Yuuri says demurely, eyes crossing at the Cyrillic.

Victor clicks his tongue and leans into Yuuri’s shoulder, pointing at a word that appears in a few of the subject lines.

щенок. Puppy.

 

It’s been said to Victor multiple times that he’s lucky he’s so pretty because boy, honey, he isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. School wasn’t important to him; why would it have been? He lived and breathed skating. He was groomed for it, came up on the ice. School? Fuck school. There’s only so much time in the day; that’s really it. Maybe if he’d had more time, been in a real school, he’d have been academic, but the fact of the matter is – he isn’t. He can read in Russian, French and English. Italian and Spanish take time but he can survive in those languages. His Japanese is slow and childish but it’s getting there. So it’s not like he has an empty cave inside his skull; there’s more going on than French house music behind his eyeballs. His speech and vocabulary is too expansive, and he’s travelled too much to be ignorant, but.

But the point is, Victor never professes to be a wealth of information. He doesn’t know dates of wars or treaties, his Russian history is laughably bad for someone who carries Russia’s international athletic pride, and he’s long stropped trying to comprehend the physics of his jumps and rotations. all he knows is how to move his body to make it happen, not the gravitational force at work on his poor bones. He doesn’t need to know the amount of, like, force exerted on his mass to know that even a good landing jars his teeth. Fuck Einstein. Wait.  No. Newton. Fuck Newton for inventing gravity. That dick.  Actually, fuck Einstein for the atomic bomb too. Actually, yeah, fuck a lot of people.

But the point is, Victor information-binges. When he wants to know something, he will know the shit out of it. Sometimes, that intense learning comes in the form of say, wheedling his way into the home of the man of his dreams and memorizing him. Sometimes, that learning means listening to the same song for hours and hours, watching the same movie or opera until he knows it front-to-back and he’s read ten essays on it. And sometimes, that means eighty-seven tabs open on his browser, the laptop burning his thighs, the clock reading 4:28am.

He’s adopting a dog and he’s going to know _everything_ about dogs. Everything ever.

“Yuuri, did you know dogs have the most chromosomes of any species and that’s why we’re able to manipulate breeds?”

“Yuuri! Did you know the domestication of dogs has changed their brains and they can understand humans and human gestures intrinsically, unlike their wild cousins?”

“Yuuri, poodles are _so smart._ They’re, like, _the best_ dog. _”_

“Puppy,” Yuuri grumbles lethargically. He slits on eye open, groans at the laptop light, and shoves his face back into the drool spot on his pillow. “Go to bed.”

Yuuri had lasted until about 2am reading along with him, playing on his phone. Yuuri used to be a night owl, but sometimes being twenty-seven feels a lot like being forty-five and he needs his sleep. Victor, on the other hand, is bloodshot and vibrating.  No point sleeping now, he’s supposed to do a morning practice at 7am.

“I will,” Victor promises. He closes one tab and opens another.

 

Yakov takes one look at him and sends him home. He doesn’t mention the text from Yuuri very sternly stating that Victor shouldn’t be allowed to do more than skate figure eights today.

 

Yakov takes one look at Victor a week later and sighs. Victors on his phone, biting his lip at the rink side, brow drawn into a quivering bunch and breath labored – mostly from practice.

“Vitya,” Yakov barks. Victor tips his head in his direction, a cocked ear. “What’s wrong?”

Victor looks at him with the biggest, wobbliest look of despair, a pathetic pout on his mouth and fraught distress in his eyes “The breeder we really liked is almost out of puppies.” He waves his phone at Yakov, like any human could gather data from the blurred wave of the screen. “There’s only two left. And Yuuri has the car and he has classes all day!”

“Puppies?” Mila squeals, skating over. She says it loudly. Ten other skaters hear and then suddenly there’s a clutch of them, all the little summer chickens squawking at Victor and talking about these damn puppies and Victor’s growing increasingly excited and agitated and exclaiming about how the sire and the bitch for them were perfect and so clean and well-bred and the breeder came with the best reviews and Yakov’s ears are ringing.

“I’ll take you.”

This dog is supposed to help Vitya. He’ll go buy the damn thing himself if he must.

Everyone shuts up. It’s a relief, but the silence…disquiets him. Twenty pairs of bright-eyes glow with emotion at him. All his little chickens fidget closer to the wall around the rink, to him, a brood.

“You’ll take me?” Victor repeats. A slow, disarming smile spreads itself like warm butter across his face. Yakov inhales deeply, audibly, through his nose, and nods once. “Yakov!” Victor squeals, throwing his body half over the wall to hug Yakov. “You are so good to me!”

“Softy,” someone – Yashu – laughs.

“All of you go home now. Off the ice. Vitya, go change. Where is this place?”

“An hour away.”

Yakov groans. Of course it is.

 

It’s in the middle of nowhere. Of course it is. They’re on some desolate road, sun-silver and winding. The windows are down and Victor’s recording himself head hanging out the window, hair whipping. Idiot will drop his phone and then cry and then he will be in the car with Yakov for two hours without a distraction.

“Stop that. Get your head in here. This will be the time a branch cuts your face off.” He reaches across the console to tug once on Victor’s arm. Victor obeys, drawing back into the seat, sending his childish video off to the internet to ogle him and fan the fires of his indulgent vanity. Yakov knew, when Victor was a child, that he would be a handful. That he’d grow up good looking. Nothing could have prepared him for the full force of Victor Nikiforov. There are good athletes, and then there are attractive ones. And charismatic ones. But Victor – he christens the rink each morning with the cut of his legend.

Victor’s smiles, secretive and obvious, squinting into the light and watching the road between watching Yakov.

“What?” Yakov asks, regretting it. Victor hums and flings down his car seat, propping his naked feet on Yakov’s dashboard.

“You’re such a worrier, Yakov,” Victor teases. “How did you ever let me go to Japan all by my lonesome?” Victor grins, all teeth and crinkled eyes, boy-bright. Yakov glances at him and hurts with worry.

“I didn’t,” Yakov grumbles. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “You ran away. You have a garbage memory. How you remember your routines is beyond me.”

Victor smiles harder and looks away. Yakov bites his tongue and watches the road run away underneath his wheels. Someone in some fancy sports car chases around them, biting off around the next turn in a flash of blue.

“Oh yeah,” Victor says a long time too late. “Best decision I ever made.” When Yakov doesn’t take the bait, Victor flings himself all over it. “I have a loving boyfriend and a therapist and now I’m getting a dog.” He changes his feet over, crossing his ankles, his toes curling and uncurling, over and over. Yakov lets his eyes drift to Victor’s ugly toes as narrow as birds’ feet. His loudest, proudest, baby bird.

 

 

The breeder lady shakes Yakov’s hand and asks “so are you Victor’s father?” and Victor wraps an arm around Yakov’s shoulder immediately and says “yes!” Yakov firmly corrects them both and sits on the couch to be swarmed by hyperactive dust bunnies. The breeder, Masha, serves him tea and cookies and sits on a wing-backed chair to watch with amusement as Victor Nikiforov, _yes, that Victor Nikiforov_ , lays on the floor to let the puppies crawl all over him and lick his face and _even his mouth_.

Yakov jokes: “Are you going to let Yuuri kiss that mouth?” and doesn’t understand when Victor smiles enigmatically and replies “Yuuri loves Puppy kisses.” He doesn’t want to know. He would like to comfortably live until very old age and not know.

Speaking of Yuuri. Victor calls his boyfriend and asks for, what seems to Yakov, to be the millionth time, if Yuuri is sure, absolutely sure, that he doesn’t want to be here to pick out the puppy.

“It’s okay, Vicchan. The dog is going to be yours. You should pick the one that feels most right to you, especially if the litter we liked is almost all gone. You like this breeder, yes? And there’s one you like? The girl one? Then bring her home. I’ll be home to put the last of the puppy-proofing on the cabinets and toilet before you get home.”

The only problem is what happens after Victor gives the lady a check for too much money (aren’t there dogs in pounds what is he doing buying one?) Because they get out to the car, Victor with an armful of wriggling fur swaddled in his red Russian jacket, that they mutually and simultaneously realize that Victor doesn’t have any of his impending-puppy supplies with him. No collar or leash or crate. Nothing.

“If that mutt pees in my car, you’re cleaning it yourself,” Yakov warns, unlocking his car with a beep of lights and horn.

“She’s a purebred,” Victor sniffs. “She would never. She has _manners.”_

The puppy pees on Victor instead, soaking his hoodie through. They pull off on the side of the road after Victor had screamed “No piddle, no piddle!” but by the time those four oversized paws touch the earth, the pup’s bladder has long since emptied. Victor strips down to his underwear and shoves his soiled clothes into a crumpled food bag they find under Yakov’s back seat. The puppy, relieved and tired, falls asleep against his naked chest. Yakov drives with the windows down, blowing away the mild smell of urine. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t curse. He just looks over at Victor’s blissful face staring down at his puppy, how relaxed he looks running one finger over an ear of silky curls.

Yakov’s selfishly glad, in that moment, that Yuuri was at work. That he couldn’t do this with Victor because _Yakov_ got to instead, and he’s not sure how many more times he’ll be the one taking care of Victor. Not with how sure Yakov is that Yuuri will be around for a long time. Maybe for the rest of the time. It’s too early to judge, but Yakov can feel it between those two boys. Yuuri already came this far with Victor, _for Victor_ , and Victor’s never opened up before to someone like he has with Yuuri.

“When are you and Yuuri going to have Lilia and me over for dinner, hmm? You show off those packed lunches you two make together every day.”

Victor gasps, jerked to attention. “You’re right. We haven’t hosted anyone properly as a couple.” A hand flies to his mouth, fingers pressing into his lips hard enough that splotches of white dimple under the pressure. He snaps his fingers. “We’ll do it soon. It’s been so hectic and Yuuri’s had a hard time adjusting. But I’ll ask him tonight. He will love to cry over your wife. It’ll be humbling for us both, as men, to watch.”

Yakov nods. “I’ll talk to Lilia about dates. Her schedule never relaxes.”

Yakov has the most consistent schedule. He runs summer training, of course, but it’s light. He helps with choreography a little for skater’s exhibition shows but most of that is left up to them. But Lilia never seems to stop. There’s a ballet here she’s programming for or she’s running a course or commentating or writing reviews or flying somewhere for something.

As if reading his thoughts, Victor asks in a mild tone: “How do you do it, as a couple, with the busy schedules.”

Yakov wonders if Victor thinks that he’s not obvious. If it being him and not Yuuri driving this car is not obvious.

“We know that we will have to sacrifice some things. We respect each other’s careers.”

“Yeah?” Victor’s attention is firmly fixed on the puppy. It must be nice to have a place to look now, a motivation for his hands. An accepted distraction. His face doesn’t have to tire itself out so quickly now.

“When we were both skating and dancing, we couldn’t see every show the other put on. Sometimes, we didn’t see each other for months, especially if she was abroad with the company. And when we were both busy with practice, even then it was all we could do to eat a meal and go to sleep. I don’t think it would have worked if our lives weren’t similar.”

Yakov doesn’t say: there were years where I don’t think we talked. There were days and days where we didn’t kiss. We slept with other people too. Sometimes, our marriage was nothing more binding than the contract you and I share. Sometimes, it was sitting in a hospital chair and realizing – I’d survive, but I’d miss you forever. I could go on, but I don’t want to without you.

They’d married after Yakov had retired out of skating at twenty four. She’d still been the prima with the Bolshoi’s. Lilia had been ethereal at the wedding, so thin that Yakov thought she’d float away from him when they danced. For a few weeks, he’d done everything to keep her on Earth with him.

“Some couples have it easier than others. For --,” he pauses, adjusting his words, “for us, it was worth it; it’s worth it, those sacrifices. Everything in life comes with a sacrifice, Vitya.”

Victor looks at him, half naked, all white and white and white, like a wedding dress.

Yuuri meets them at the car with Victor’s slinky pink silk bathrobe and a shake of his head.

“Yuuri! Meet Makkachin!” Victor exclaims, stepping out onto the hot sidewalk, into the robe.

“Hello, Puppy,” Yuuri coos, kissing Victor on the cheek chastely then ruffling the puppy’s fur. Little thing’s perking up, wriggling and letting out shrill yips. “Nice to meet you, Makkachin….what’s a Makkachin?”

“Like Mocha? But cuter. And almost like _chan_ but I can’t have the dog have a name like mine. That’d be _weird_.”

Yuuri gives Victor a baleful look and another shake of his head, but it’s ruined by a persistent smile that breaks over his face. He gestures at the apartment. “Go put on pants. Where’s the dirty laundry? Yakov, thank you for this. I’m sorry about the trouble.”

Yuuri never knows what to do with his hands around Yakov. That much is obvious. Yakov stands there, letting Yuuri sweat, before Yuuri blanches and sticks out his hand for a handshake. Yakov clasps it firmly, briefly, one strong squeeze. Yuuri tucks his hand into the back pocket of his worn-thin jeans the moment he can. They haven’t spent much time together. The only thing they share is Victor.

“Would you like to come in?”

Yakov does, and uses the bathroom. It’s attached to the bedroom and he lets himself linger, smelling the air, touching the sheets. Everything is clean. The room is clean. The whole apartment is clean. He wants to look into the fridge and see the organized containers, the evidence of order and control.

“Would you like tea?” Yuuri offers. “And we have some sweets and rolls from the bakery. You drove for so long, please, make yourself comfortable.” Yuuri’s English around him is crisp and formal. He’d been that way on the phone, those months ago when Victor had run away to Japan. Yuuri had been an oddity, a stranger. How strange, for the body to come second to the voice.

Yakov opens the fridge and takes out jam and looks at the carrots and milk and lemons and sealed glass containers that are labeled with food and dates. The Katsuki sown a restaurant or something; it shows here. He closes the fridge and hands Victor the raspberry jam.

“Where’s the mutt?” Yakov asks in Russian, forgetting himself.

“She’s a purebred,” Yuuri corrects casually in Russian, as if Yakov really doesn’t know, as if he has memorized this phrase. Purebred. Victor would have taught him that. Taught him dog and pet vocabulary to stick into his cut-out subject-verb-object sentences. Yuuri’s jaw jump and he clears his throat, switching to English. Even from a soft-spoken man like him, the language is so loud. “She is exploring. I think Victor is following her around. You are supposed to let the new puppy smell everything and settle in on its own.”

Yuuri fixes tea while Yakov sits at the table, eating a buttery roll, listening to Victor’s inane high-pitched chatter and supportive whispers bounce around the apartment. “That’s the bed and that’s the laundry. It smells dirty, doesn’t it? You’re going to smell a lot of sweat, yes you are, we’re so stinky! Stinky daddies. And you—smell like a piddle-puppy!”

Victor joins them a minute later, carrying Makkachin, grinning. “Makkachin, you’ve barely smelled Yuuri. You should meet your other daddy,” Victor chides the puppy. He dumps her into Yuuri’s lap. Yuuri scrunches his face when the puppy, sensing its reprimand, licks his face rapidly.

“Ah—“ Yuuri takes off his now slobbery glasses and squints up at Victor. “I’m more like daddy’s boyfriend. You’re her daddy.”

Yakov crams the last of his roll into his mouth and washes it down with his tea.

Victor lifts his eyebrows, briefly stung, before he smiles blandly. “She doesn’t know that. Let her call you daddy or she will have a confusing childhood. She’ll think her other daddy is a whore.”

“I’m leaving,” Yakov announces over Yuuri’s sputtering. Victor pounces on him with protests.

“You can stay. You’re her grandpa. Or maybe,” Victor grins and squeezes Yakov’s elbow. “Her great great _great_ grandpa.”

Yakov pinches Victor’s chin in his hand and gives his cheek a pat. “Brat. I’ll be sending you the bill when I get my car cleaned.”

“Thank you again, Yakov,” Yuuri says, standing up, puppy in his arms, shoulder pressed against Victor. Victor’s arm winds around his waist without hesitation, snugging him that much closer. They look like a postcard. “We’ll figure out dinner plans soon.”

 

[Makkachin sleeping on her back, pink belly flat up, legs stretched out. Her lips hang down, narrow teeth exposed, tongue poking out. Victor lays beside her on the floor in imitation.]

**1,002,302 likes**

**y-katsuki** somehow Vitya got tired out at obedience class too.

 

[The living room. Makkachin is bigger. Sitting, alert, tail wagging swish-swish on the hardwood floor, attention fixed on Yuuri who is holding up his hand. [Fuse.] Makkachin lays down. Yuuri makes a loop with his finger, hand-cue. Makkachin rolls once, then twice. [Osuwari.] When she returns to her sitting position, Yuuri hands her a treat.]

 **v-nikiforov** She knows commands in Russian, Japanese, and English!!! Anyone want to illustrate a children’s book about two dads and their polyglot puppy????? (^_^)

 

Victor posts the video and tosses his phone onto the couch cushion before he slips onto his hands and knees and crawls himself over beside Makkachin. Her attention is ruptured. She breaks her sit and pounces on him to lick his face.

“You love daddy, don’t you~ Yes, baby girl~” Victor dodges the tongue but ruffles her ears and kisses her in loud smacks, riling her up further.

“Vicchan,” Yuuri tsks, annoyed. “You’re not supposed to interrupt when she’s doing obedience training.”

“I’m not. I’m not,” Victor defends. He snaps his fingers a few times and points at the floor, issuing a firm “osuwari” twice and Makkachin, still quivering, obeys. “I’m introducing stimulus. Increasing difficulty.” He grins at Yuuri convincingly.

“Just… _okay_. Try not to be _too_ stimulating,” Yuuri warns. He holds his palm flat, attention once more on Makkachin. “Mate.” He takes a few steps back, palm raised, and repeats the command. Makkachin’s tails starts to thump. Victor sits on his knees in expectation, watching with a glint in his eye.

When Yuuri’s at the other end of the room, he drops his palm slowly. "Oide."

Makkachin darts forward, followed by Victor slinking behind her at a more leisurely pace. Yuuri rewards Makkachin with lots of pets but his eyes are narrowed on Victor.

“Mate.”

Victor grins and freezes, one hand curled up in step. Yuuri purses his lips.

“She’s the teacher’s pet, not you.”

“I’m always your pet, Yuuri. Play with me,” Victor whines. He dips his chest down in imitation of a play-bow, wagging his butt in the air. “We haven’t done anything in for-ev-ver.”

Yuuri snorts, crouching to pet Makkachin and roll her over onto her belly. When Victor steps forward, Yuuri snaps a quick "mate" again. “You’re the one who started Makka sleeping in the bed. Now she cries when we leave her out of the bedroom. You’re going to give her separation anxiety issues.”

“I’m having separation anxiety,” Victor sniffs, sitting back on his heels. Yuuri laughs softly and sits down, letting Makkachin climb into his lap, his back against the living room wall. He gazes at Victor fondly and stretches a foot towards him, unable to bridge the distance between them but the gesture carries a warmth all the same.

It’s mostly true. They’d been busy with Makkachin, having to add obedience classes to their schedules and practicing with her when they weren’t in the group class. And because she had to be extra well-behaved in order to accompany Victor as much as possible, they took her out on long walks into town and car rides every day. Plus with her tiny bladder, there were constant piddle-breaks in their day and yeah. The first night, Makkachin had whimpered at the bottom of their bed, trying to get into it with them, and then Victor had whimpered at Yuuri, and then they’d let her into the bed and you can’t exactly suck your boyfriend’s dick with the innocent eyes of a puppy watching you.

They tried it. Makkachin tried to lick her way into the mix too. It was never, ever, happening again. Ever.

Yuuri pushes Makkachin off his lap gently and points a sharp line to the small crate tucked against the wall. “Makkachin, time for bed. Crate.”

She looks at the bedded crate, then at Victor, then at Yuuri, head swiveling slowly, assessing. Then she takes off to the bedroom. There’s the sound of skittering nails then a squeaking thump as she catapults herself up onto the mattress. Yuuri throws his hands up into the air in defeat and Victor propels himself forward to slide into his lap, to kiss away his frown.

“She can have the bed; we have the couch,” Victor laughs, butting his nose under Yuuri’s jaw and laving kisses there, sucking fast-fading pink marks. When Yuuri hums a low agreement, tipping his head back to rest against the wall and bare his neck for Victor to continue, Victor can taste the vibrations. “My master has two puppies to play with. Don’t neglect me.”

“I could never neglect you,” Yuuri laughs, carding his fingers through Victor’s hair. He leans back to thumb his damp lips and kiss Victor properly, slow and sweet. They sigh together when it ends, lips tingling. Victor rubs the tip of his nose against Yuuri’s, smiling, tries to catch their eyelashes together.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Victor suggests, easing off of Yuuri and rising to his feet gracefully. He helps Yuuri to his feet with a hand. He doesn’t let go, instead raising Yuuri’s hand to his mouth to kiss a knuckle. Any knuckle. In this moment, there are no sacrifices.

“A movie, hmm?”

Victor winks. “I’ll go close the bedroom door.”

“I’ll dim the lights.”

 

It’s worth it, even if afterwards, they have to navigate around Makkachin who’s asleep in the middle of the bed, on top of the covers, taking up far too much room than an animal her size should be capable of occupying.

 

The summer drifts along. Yuuri accepts a permanent position at the studio, teaching hip-hop class and lyrical ballet classes. He choreographs. Sometimes, he goes off with Lilia and comes back hard-faced and exhausted and sharpened. He has a cult following of dancers. Every so often, he lets Victor drop in between classes with Makkachin. They have lunch together, and when people appear, Victor gushes about Makkachin and Makkachin becomes the only star in the room.

Victor does a commercial for animal welfare. Yuuri cries at it. Makkachin gets spoiled.

After a few months, it becomes easier to bring her to the rink with him. Practices in the summer aren’t very long, just enough to keep skills sharp, the play with developing routines. Mila is Makkachin’s third favorite human, it’s clear. She does come to the apartment fairly often, even though she’s started t need Yuuri’s help less and less. But everyone enjoys having the dog at the rink, not just Victor. She’s their mascot, always happy to have the skates come off the ice to pet her or take her for a quick walk. It doesn’t matter if they fall all day, she’s proud of them.

No one knows why, exactly, Yakov doesn’t protest her presence. When Victor had come in that first day, leading Makkachin on her leash, everyone had waited for Yakov to yell at him, to send him home, or for Yuuri to come and get the dog. But Yakov had simply patted Makkachin on the head.

Victor doesn’t miss their whispers. Most of his fellow skaters do not love him. Some like him passively, others hold him in distant but high regard, and plenty of them harbor secret resentments. It’s because he hit his head that Yakov’s so nice to him. Or because he ran away and thinks he can do anything he wants. Or because he’s the best so of course he can bring his dog to the rink.

Makkachin is unwavering happiness. She is loyal and eager. Even if ten other hands are stroking her fur, Victor only has to call her and it’s his side that she runs to, his voice that snaps her to attention. It’s not like with people. She doesn’t ask him things, expect things from him, doesn’t even ask him to take care of her because she knows that he will. She knows that she’s loved. And she gives it ten times over.

 

Victor holds up two bottles of nail polish. He’s on the floor, a decorative vase between his legs, full of polishes. "Is she a ‘midnight blue’ or a ‘daisy yellow’? Victor queries to Yuuri, handing him the bottles for inspection. Yuuri takes them to inspect with a clinical eye, holding the bottles against Makkachin’s fur.

“Since when do you own yellow? Your dislike of yellow is listed on your Wikipedia.”

“I don’t know. It’s cute on other people.” Victor lurches forward to take the bottle and he grabs Yuuri’s foot, making his boyfriend squeak. “It’d look good on you.”

“Then put it on me,” Yuuri says, turning and dropping his feet into Victor’s hands. Makkachin gets up from her patient position watching her dads be dorks and starts sniffing around the bedroom. Yuuri drags the vase of nail polishes to him and roots through it.  He holds up a garish red.

“’Tramp Stamp,’” he reads from the bottom label. Victor _ooohs_ and takes it from him.

“I love this color. It burns my retinas.” He shakes it.

“I’ll put it on your toes,” Yuuri offers. “Makka can wear the blue, I’ll wear yellow, and you can wear red.”

“I feel like we should do something cuter than that,” Victor pouts. “Do they have professional pedicure places for dogs? Could we get her acrylics?”

“Puppy,” Yuuri says gently, laying a hand on Victor’s, stopping him from searching that question on his phone. “No.”

 

[Two pairs of human feet and two front paws. The nails are painted.]

**402,973 likes**

**v-nikiforov #** RestDaysBestDays

 

It’s after Victor returns from his short tour around Italy for a series of ice shows – Chris was there making them even more fun (exhausting) -- that he’d been obligated to do with his sponsorship from Ferrari and just before the new season starts that Victor loses two days.

There’s nothing to it, really. He gets back from Italy, worn out, and Yuuri feeds him in bed and lets him sleep and takes care of everything that needs taken care of – and then Victor wakes up not knowing what day it is, not feeling time at all. Yuuri’s gone. Victor opens and closes the fridge, staring at the labeled containers, the portioned meals. He makes a cup of tea and forgets about it on the coffee table. He lays on the couch and looks at the blank TV screen. Makkachin licks his face and lays on the floor at his feet. When she needs to go out, she licks his face again and sits in front of the door, barking once, turning in a circle, and sitting again.

She pees on the first patch of grass they come to and tugs him back inside. Victor’s barefoot, sidewalk burning his soles. He unclips the leash, Makkachin sitting patiently, and then she’s circling around him, herding him to the bed. He crawls under the covers and she lays against him, huffing wetly when he hugs her close. Yuuri isn’t there to not let her use his pillow as her own personal drool-cushion and she takes advantage. Victor should pull it away, but he feels dulled. He stares at the dark line of her lips, just where the fur doesn’t come all the way down, as it creases into Yuuri’s pillow.

They lay like that for hours. Victor doesn’t even know where his phone is, still on ‘do not disturb.’ He knows that it’s hours that pass only because Yuuri eventually comes home and the room has grown darker, low sappy summer light.

“Tadaima!” Yuuri calls. “Vitya-Puppy? You home?”

In his head, Victor says _yes_ and he swears he calls out to Yuuri. It’s almost like sleeping. He thinks he calls out and that Yuuri comes in and life goes on. But Yuuri calls for him again, walking through the apartment now. Makkachin boofs, a low unobtrusive sound. The floorboards creak and Yuuri finds them in bed.

“Vicchan,” he whispers. “You asleep?”

Again, Victor tries to talk but something monosyllabic crawls out of his throat. The shy tips of warm fingers touch his bare arm and Victor rolls enough to open his eyes and see Yuuri, dimly illuminated, frowning at him in care. Then he rolls back, curling around Makkachin who adjusts and licks his face, and Yuuri slides onto the bed to wrap him up too, slowly, pinning him down under the covers.

“You been here all day?”

Victor nods slightly.

“Did you eat?”

A small shake.

Yuuri reaches over him and pets Makkachin’s snout with one finger, stroking up from nose to between her eyes. “Have you been taking care of him, girl?”

When Makkachin licks Yuuri’s hand, she catches Victor’s chin with her tongue. He flops a hand onto her side and scratches at her curls. When he talks, his throat catches, and he has to clear it as if it’s stopped with mud.

“She stayed with me all day.” He stares at Makkachin. She stares back, big brown eyes glossy, head tilting slowly, nose sniffling. She licks his face again and whines before rolling over onto him more. “She laid with me.” His brows furrow, trying to muscle away the pinching heat at his eyes. “Just…stayed with me all day, Yuuri.”

He hadn’t given any commands, hadn’t called her. She hadn’t dragged toys into the bed or ran to the window or the door to bark at things.

Victor tightens his hand in her curls. “She’s such a good dog, Yuuri.”

Yuuri nods and brushes the hair back from Victor’s face. “You picked a good one, Vicchan. She loves you as much as you love her.”

  _More_ , Victor thinks. Dogs can love you more.

 

 

All three of them go on vacation with Yakov and Lilia at their _dacha_ at the end of summer. They book tickets far in advance to go to Japan for a Christmas stay between Victor’s competitions. Phichit, his mom, dad and sister are joining them at the onsen. It’s months away, but already something looked forward too. Victor will celebrate his birthday in Japan – with Yuuri. They don’t talk about what it means that yes, they’re projecting themselves that far into the future. They don’t talk about it because they’re doing it, being it.

By the time the new season starts, Makkachin’s doubled in size, no longer easy to pick up. She takes up more room in the bed. The queen’s a snug fit. Victor and Yuuri debate a king. They buy her a new dog bed, like that’ll do something. She uses it sparingly. At least now Makkachin only whimpers a little when she gets booted from the bedroom when her daddies “need daddy-time together, Makka~”

 

The expandable puppy-sized collar they’d originally purchased, in a high durably, highly reflective, hypo-allergenic nylon finally reaches its last notch. Makkachin needs a new collar. Buying her a new one should be simple. It could be as easy as clicking Add To Cart and waiting a few days. They could swing buy the store and grab the first collar they see. But nah.

Victor binges on the internet again and determines that harnesses are the only proper way to walk your dog. That they’re training Makkachin to not need any lead at all is beside the point. Then, he finds a fancy boutique and even Yuuri will admit that some of their products are cute, if not _stupidly_ overpriced.

It’s called Le Le Citron.

Yuuri glances at Victor’s spandex, then at the website. He knows. Somehow, he just _knows_. What he knows, he doesn’t know, but he knows _something_. Yuuri has great intuition. He’s never wrong.

He wishes he were wrong.

The trip starts normally enough. They crate Makkachin in the backseat of the Cadillac and pile into the front. For Victor, it’s a welcome respite from the already relentless grind of the competition season. Russian Nationals are around the corner and though he feels confident, everything, absolutely everything shifts between terrible grandness and meaningless smallness. Today is a Big Day. He feels light and energetic. The weather’s holding onto the last mellow summer warmth. Yuuri looks more ravishing than usual. He smiles at Victor from the passenger’s seat, hair loose and whipping in the wind.

Hell fucking yes.

Yuuri definitely notices Victor’s good mood. It’s almost bright enough to completely dispel Yuuri’s suspicious anticipation. Le Le Citron’s storefront window greets them with polished white pedestals where creepily life-like fake dogs sit nobly, adorned with this and that.

“This place is weird,” Yuuri whispers to Victor. “I feel like they’re going to steal Makkachin’s soul and turn her into a display.” He keeps Makkachin close to him, her leash wrapped around one hand, Victor’s hand firmly clasped in his other. Victor, the fucker, winks.

Yuuri knows it’s a boutique and, like, for weird designer pet accessories but it’s clean and sharp inside. There’s a tall, good looking man wiping at a display case for ??? bracelets??? Who turns when he hears them. He’s dressed in all black, not quite formal but not informal either. He looks Victor up and down, eyebrows quirking appreciate. Victor, in his dark jeans that make his legs look miles long and one of his sheer raw-cotton tank tops, shoulders pink from the sun after the drive, arms suddenly looking naked and delicious. Are his nipples always that obvious? God, yes, they are. Yuuri should have known Victor was up to no good this morning when he dressed.

“Can I help you?” The man asks in Russian, all purr and provocation.

Yuuri can’t stop and doesn’t want to stop the impulse that has him shifting his grip on Victor’s hand to a hand on the small of his back, a slight clench to his hip. Victor’s grinning, cheeks turning the same color as the tops of his shoulders.

The man, Fyo, his tag reads, slides his eyes to Yuuri. None of his quiet salacious tone is lost when he asks, “Should I be asking you that?”

Yuuri doesn’t understand. He’s not sure he wants to. He _knew_ something weird was going to happen. He doesn’t fully get the grammar of the question and his ears ring with the struggle of comprehending. He says “No, thank you,” hoping it makes sense as an answer. Victor leans back into his touch.

“We are going to look around,” Victor says.

“Let me know if you want any recommendations,” Fyo says politely, returning to his task with one last glance at them. Yuuri doesn’t know what the noun is in that sentence – not help. Advice, maybe? Whatever. He tugs Victor behind the first display he can.

“This place is weird,” he repeats in whispered English.  Victor laughs quietly, skipping ahead out of his hold, headed for the back of the store. When Yuuri and Makkachin remain where they are, he turns on his heels deftly and curls a finger in beckoning.

“Come, Makkachin.”

Makkachin drags Yuuri forward.

Victor’s shopping around, touching things, mumbling to himself and talking rapid-fire Russian to Makkachin, leaving Yuuri to glaze over. They could have gone to the regular pet store. He’s not paying attention much when Victor taps him on the arm and holds up a thick black leather collar with way too many buckles on it.

“What do you think?” Victor asks in English. He lets it hang from one of his slender, pale fingers. It looks vicious.

“We are not putting our dog in some BDSM look-alike –.” Yuuri closes his mouth, then closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Victor.”

“Yes, solnyshko, master dearest, love of my life?”

Yuuri takes another breath, filling his chest up. He can feel his ears turning hot. “Are we shopping for a collar for Makkachin or a collar for you?”

 

Yuuri had watched him once, before they’d gotten Makkachin, holding up the collar they’d already bought. It was so small and limp in his hands, but he’d rubbed his thumb over the nyloc cords, over and over, and then, with Yuuri watching quietly, slid it to the widest notch and buckled it around himself.

Then he’d taken snapchats of himself with the puppy filter.

“Having fun?” Yuuri had asked, more than ready to indulge him in whatever fantasy he wanted.

Victor unclasped it after a minute with a twist of his lips. “It’s ugly. You’ll buy me something cuter, right?”

“Whatever you want, Puppy.”

 

 

Yuuri hears Victor’s shoes squeak as he twists on his toes. A minute later, there’s a weight in his hand. He opens his eyes, bracing for something with spikes or, probably, diamonds. Instead, it’s dusky pink, the leather silky-smooth. It has a rose gold filigree circling it. The clasp system is a belt of well-made chains, and a rose gold heart makes the front center.

The leather’s already growing warm in Yuuri’s grip.

“They really do have stuff for dogs,” Victor explains, almost nervously, hovering in front of Yuuri. “But on their website, they said they started to cater to a more eclectic market after they found out people were using their products on, well, people.”

Yuuri lifts his eyes from the collar to Victor. “Is this the one you like?” he simply asks, tone already indicating his approval.

Victor’s mouth opens, his eyes dilate. “Maybe,” he answers breathlessly.

Yuuri makes himself look down at the collar. He rubs his thumb over the exquisite leather and over the metalwork. “It is very pretty,” he says calmly. The tighter Victor’s strung, the more he quivers, the more solid Yuuri feels. He wants to take in the delicacy of Victor’s desire and transmute it to fulfilled pleasure. “Go pick a few more that catch your eye. There’s no need to be hasty.”

When he lifts his head to put his attention back on Victor, Victor’s still looking at the collar. After a moment, feeling Yuuri’s eyes, he looks up from under his lashes, a move perfected to accommodate for the height difference between them.

“Will you look with me?” he asks, half like he’s expecting Yuuri to say ‘no’ which is silly because Yuuri rarely says no to him.

“Of course, Puppy.”

Some of the collars are almost utilitarian, others are delicate and more jewelry than anything. There are more than just collars too. There are harnesses that are on people-shaped manikins. Some on slim curvy manikins, come on strapping bodies. Those are labeled couture; someone really will fit them to your body. It makes Yuuri’s head spin, but Victor’s trailing his fingers along everything, eyes roaming and catching, roaming and catching.

“Makkachin, I’m going to buy you normal dog stuff,” Yuuri tells her. She’s growing a little impatient at being in the same store for so long, especially after the car ride. “You and Vicchan are not wearing anything from the same store.”  He has to wonder if that isn’t the point, perhaps, for some people.

He misses Victor putting on one of the collars until he turns around and Victor has a lattice work of matte black leather caged around his throat. His neck is very straight and it looks tight.

“No,” Yuuri dismisses immediately. Victor’s face falls. “I wouldn’t be able to kiss your neck,” Yuuri explains. Plus Victor looks like he’s in a prison.

“Oh, wow, you’re right!”

Except he can’t get it off himself and then Yuuri’s trying to undo it and “how the hell did you get this on yourself?” He drops Makkachin’s leash to wrestle with the collar with both hands.

“I don’t know, I don’t know! It’s getting tighter.”

Eight thin traps through a flat locking system have secured the collar. Yuuri can’t seem to get his perpetually short nails into any sort of mechanic on it, and now every time he does anything, Victor winces and Yuuri’s pretty sure the thing is a death trap and is getting tighter with all their struggling.

“Puppy, I think you’re struck,” Yuuri sighs. Victor’s face is flushed and he’s holding onto Yuuri, pressing himself against Yuuri. “And –and you’re popping a boner. I can’t believe you.”

“I can’t help it,” Victor whines, sounding way too pleased with the situation. “I’m being choked by an evil cursed collar while you try to rescue me. This is one of my fantasies, except you’re not dressed like a roguish prince. Let’s buy it. Fuck me at home and we can cut it off after. It’ll be hot.”

Yuuri shivers and bites his lip. “It’s too expensive. We bought those plain tickets on a credit card, remember? I don’t want to pay interest.”

Victor grabs his hips and ruts into him, ducking his head out of Yuuri’s hands to bring his lips to Yuuri’s ear. “Please? We don’t have to buy another collar. Let’s go home and play with this one.”

Victor’s skin is hot when he presses his cheek to Yuuri’s cheek, his breath coming in quick little puffs. It’s hot. He’s hot. He’s hard and squirming against Yuuri in the back of some weird boutique, his neck a pretty display, a taunt against Yuuri. If he were naked, with just that matte black against his throat, it’d be so so pretty. Victor already dizzy from restraint, needy for every breath….Yuuri knows that he’d come hard.

But that thing, about Yuuri finding more control the more Victor loses his?

Yuuri finds his resolve and runs a hand down Victor’s neck, tracing the ripple of leather. “Puppy, no. You wanted something special from here. We’ll ask for help getting it off.”

“You need to choke him.”

They jerk and turn to see Fyo standing there, a small tray with three flutes of champagne innocently bubbling. He slides the tray onto a shelf and steps forward. He’s speaking English now, “I leave for a minute to get refreshments, and the puppy gets himself into a hunter’s trap.” He tsks and waves a hand at Victor, beckoning him forward. “Come here, I’ll get it off of you.”

“No,” Yuuri snaps, stunned, hand on the back of Victor’s neck tightening. “You – want to choke him? He’s already choking. Look at him!”

Victor laughs once and drops his head onto Yuuri’s shoulder, pinching at his clothes. Oh, right. He’s hard as a rock now and shivering. Yuuri wants to take him home, put him to bed. Give him juice. This is not the rest day that Victor needs.

“Yes,” Fyo says carefully, not at all perturbed by Yuuri’s tone or alarm. “That’s the point. In order to loosen the straps, you need to pinch them together. Like a Chinese finger trap. Choke him and make sure that you are loosening the pressure on the straps _before_ you pull on them. They’ll slide out.”

Victor giggles, sounding drunk. “That’s clever. Why didn’t we try that?”

“I _knew_ it,” Yuuri hisses. He knew today would be weird. He hates this place.

Fyo picks up a champagne class and takes a sip, eyes dancing with amusement. “Ah, watching this, I am more and more proud of the gold you won us, Victor.”

Yuuri groans. Yeah, why did he think that this could be a subtle adventures? Victor bites Yuuri’s shoulder, not at all caring.

“Can you turn around?” Yuuri grumbles at Fyo. Fyo salutes him with his glass of champagne and turns around, giving them his back. Yuuri touches Victor’s cheek and lifts his face, catching his eyes. The blue is nothing but an electric band around his pupils.

“Take a breath for me, Vitya,” Yuuri whispers, stroking his cheek.

“I am having _such_ a good time,” Victor teases, completely earnest. He dutifully sucks in a breath but when Yuuri carefully closes his grip around his throat, his eyes flutter shut and he _groans_ , arching against Yuuri. Fyo sneaks a peak over his shoulder, but Yuuri misses it, too intent on pinches the straps together as quickly as possible, working them loose one by one. The collar’s already really tight, and it takes longer than he’d like, it feels like it takes forever, but Victor recovers himself enough o stand still, only slightly trembling, his hand twisting a sharp knot in Yuuri’s shirt.

The collar finally comes off, leaving behind its design in red imprints. Yuuri rubs Victor’s neck worriedly, listening to Victor take an unrestricted breath. “You okay?”

“No,” Victor whispers. He slits an eye open. “I’m going to come.”

“No, you aren’t,” Yuuri says firmly. He kisses Victor’s nose and marches to Fyo, handing over the collar. “This never happened.”

Fyo takes the warm leather and presses it to his cheek with a grin, obviously teasing them. “We value confidentiality. Why don’t you go into the back room, Victor? There’s an employee’s bathroom that locks.”

“So kind!” Victor says cheerfully, already making his awkward way there. “Oh shit – _Makkachin~_ ”

The clack of nails. Makkachin, the only well-behaved one in the bunch, finds Victor in a second. He pets her once. “You’re so good. Yes you are! Daddy needs a minute, baby. Go to Yuuri.”

Yuuri calls her over. Fyo crouches down to let her sniff him before he pets her. That little bit of manners makes Yuuri hate him less.

“You’d be surprised how often people get stuck in this,” he says conversationally, brandishing the collar.

Yuuri downs both glasses of champagne in stony silence. Victor’s back within five minutes, grinning and flushed.

“That was an adventure,” he declares, waving his hands in front of himself excitedly and clapping. “Yuuri, are you ready to go home?...Have you been drinking?”

“Yes. We’re going home, now. I’m buying Makkachin what she needs tomorrow. Fyo, good bye forever.”

“Bye-bye.” Fyo wags his fingers at them.

 

Yuuri fucks Victor at home, hands around his throat. After, when Victor’s passed out sprawled in bed, Yuuri orders that pink fucking collar from the boutique’s website and a normal dog collar and a normal walking harness from a normal pet store for Makkachin.


	4. Phichit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor visits Hasetsu waiting to say yes to Yuuri's marriage proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite this chapter completely. I originally focused on their fight and extended it and it was a whole other thing entirely. but irl i fight to kill and it escalated and my friend was like "u need to chill" so i rewrote this and made it way fluffier. there's a splash of manipulation from victor but they resolve it. there's more extensive puppy-play thinking but not so much action. I assume that if you're this far into this au u aren't squicked out. other than the BJ in the beginning there isn't anything graphic
> 
> this chapter is much more linear than the last one.
> 
> people wanted more introspection on victors aprt and more background so i tried to deliver. There's a lot of self-worth issues he's navigating. also because yoi is in a magical world without homophobia there's also a lot less gender policing. 
> 
> i tried my best with culture and language content.and i really tried to edit this chapter but im sure its full of mistakes.
> 
> ALSO MOST IMPORTANT :: you are all angels!!! i love writing this story and sharing it with you because we've been together for like, YOU KNOW 120,000+ words and that's a lot of bonding time. i love and live for your comments and enjoyment of this story. if there's things you're curious about or want to see or want explained, chat with me. Really thank you for being my supporters.
> 
> the next chapter is should be very sexy and the last one will finally have Yuri in it!!

* * *

 

Victor wakes up on his 22nd birthday in Yekaterinburg in a hotel room. He groans and stretches an arm over to the bedside to silence his 6:00am alarm. The motion leaves his armpit vulnerable; Yuuri stirs awake enough to calculate his trajectory and smashes his face into Victor’s armpit, rubbing into the hair and sleep-damp skin. Victor might have his “foot thing” as Yuuri puts it, but he thinks that’s less weird than Yuuri’s “insatiable olfactory desires.” It’s a good thing, Victor thinks, that Yuuri loves the smell of his body considering how often Victor smells of sweat.

“Happy birthday,” Yuuri mumbles, the stubble on his upper lip tickling Victor’s skin. He only gets stubble on his lip and on his chin, his cheeks stubbornly juvenile and bare. There’s a cursed photo of Yuuri at twenty three, taken at the onsen, with a goatee. It was sort of the worst thing Victor’s ever laid two eyes on.

“I wasn’t born yet,” Victor corrects, petulant in the early hour. He flops a hand onto Yuuri to rub his arm. “Noon. Noonish.”

“Happy….birth-canal day,” Yuuri attempts, only faintly deterred in his well-wishing.

“Shhh, my love, shhh. Too early for…anatomy….I don’t even know what a birth canal is.”   

“The…vagina tube?” Yuuri shuffles against him, yawning, kissing Victor’s ribs. He sits up and rubs at his face, hair flat on one side and the other forming an organic skyscraper. “Between the uterus and the vaginal opening. I _assume_. I’ve only been once, so I’m hardly an expert.”

Victor throws his forearm over his eyes, kicking his foot once against the bed in tired distress, a quiet groan of laughter. “Why are you like this?”

Yuuri snickers and drapes himself over Victor, kissing him lightly, making a point to drag his scratching chin over his ticklish navel. “Suez canal. Panama canal. Birth canal. Happy canal day, Vitya.” He ends that ridiculous conversational line, sliding up Victor’s body, warm skin against warm skin, to kiss him deeply, slowly. Victor licks into his mouth with a lazy hum, carding his fingers through Yuuri’s ridiculous hair.

“Your morning breath…kind of tastes like old tea,” he muses when Yuuri breaks the liplock to plant kisses on Victor’s stubbled chin, tongue poking at the very slight cleft that’s particularly rough with growth.

“And you taste like birthday cake and sprinkles,” Yuuri gripes. He hides his face into Victor’s neck.

“Are you embarrassed?” Victor teases, scratching at the nape of his neck. “My tongue’s been in your asshole. Yuuri~ I love your tea breath. Come back to me; quench my thirst with your kisses.”

Yuuri saves himself by ducking under the duvet and snuggling himself between Victor’s naked thighs. Victor laughs until he feels Yuuri’s hot mouth starts nibbling at his tender skin and kissing its confident way to his half-perked cock. There’s a pause for Yuuri to sniff Victor’s balls and moan quietly, enjoying himself. Victor wants to call him a hypocrite because Victor’s balls surely smell like, well, balls, but he accepts the compliment with quiet dignity.

“Happy birthday to me,” Victor sighs when Yuuri closes his lips around his cock. He flips the blanket back and scoots up, making Yuuri chase his cock when it falls free, wet and shiny, from his lips. Victor grips it by the base, points it indulgenly to Yuuri’s lip. They both love the sensation of growing hard in the others mouth. “Yuuri,” he sighs, scratching a hand into Yuuri’s terrible hair and tugging. “Is this my present?”

Yuuri huffs, turning his face away with a blush, a pinch of embarrassment. Victor pokes his cheek with the tip of his dick just to be annoying. He does it again, when Yuuri’s eyes narrow back on him in threat.

He shouldn’t poke bears.

Except it’s okay to do when it’s Yuuri. Cause Yuuri gets huffy and huffy blowjobs from Yuuri are amazing because he makes it a point to make Victor apologize and Victor, through a mix of whimpers and laughter, blubbers out “I’m sorry,” as Yuuri sucks so hard and so slow on him that he’s lifting off the bed and risking pulling a muscle in his asscheek.

“Brat,” Yuuri scolds, kissing the red tip of Victor’s cock. He licks it after, like he’s sorry for having to play tough love, and rests his hand flat on Victor’s shuddering diaphragm, feeling those quaking breaths. When Victor hums and opens his eyes again, still on edge and balls feeling full and heavy, just waiting for Yuuri to tell him where to blow his load, Yuuri grins, quick and impish, and slides Victor’s dick into one side of his mouth, wedges it tight and impossible between cheek fat and the blunt wall of his teeth. It’s obscene, the sight of Yuuri’s cheek distended and bulging with Victor’s cock, the dark root of it splitting his lips apart, spit dripping out of the corners of his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Victor hisses, nails of his hands biting into Yuuri’s scalp. Yuuri slides back, and Victor can feel the grooves of his teeth massaging the side of his dick, the ridge beneath the head of his dick catching on the tight seam of Yuuri’s lip. Yuuri opens his jaw enough to slide Victor back into his mouth properly, letting his teeth skim over Victor’s cock and it’s a sharp hot bite of pain that makes Victor snap his hips up, plunging himself into the back of Yuuri’s throat where he finds relief in tight heat. Yuuri makes the filthiest gagging noise. They both scrabble and Yuuri has his head down, bent over Victor, hands squeezing Victor’s ass and kneading, working him into his throat, letting Victor grind into his face in short, urgent circles of his hips. Yuuri eventually slams him down on the bed, hands clenched into Victor’s sharp hipbones, and pulls off with an obscene slurp.

Victor chokes on spit, trying and failing to swallow a plaintive cry, pushing up against Yuuri’s hands, feeling hot and cold and like the middle of himself is melting. His cock juts up, coated in thick spit, dribbling; Yuuri wastes no time in working him with his hand, effortless in all the mess, catching his breath and blinking his eyes in an attempt to regain his own senses.

“YuuriYuuriYuuri,” he gasps, reaching for him. He needs him. “Up here. Up here with me, solnyshka. Please.”

“I’m here,” Yuuri soothes, laying against him, propped up on a shaky elbow, reaching down between them to work Victor off in his fist, his grip slick and easy, twisting at the head. Victor doesn’t let him move, kissing Yuuri’s face blindly, reverently. Yuuri kisses Victor through his orgasm and winds him down with a light body rub, prepping his muscles for the long day.

In five hours, the finals for the Russian Nationals men’s free programs begin. Two days ago, Victor had taken the point record in the short program with his performance of _On Love: Agape_. He now holds both the Short and the Free skate point records. And like last time, it was Yuuri’s love that helped him to achieve that height.

Less than a month ago, Victor hadn’t been sure that he’d still have Yuuri in his life come his birthday.

 

* * *

 

 

The season has not been kind to them.

Yakov’s words had been constant in Victor’s head, warning him for months. _Sacrifices_. It’s not like they thought Yuuri could join Victor on all of his competitions. Victor had never known what it was like to manage a relationship during competition season. _Sacrifices_.

 It’s one thing to sit down together and look at a calendar marked filled to the brink with training schedules, exam visits, therapy sessions, competitions that always take a a day buffer with flights in and out: then Yuuri’s, with private lessons that he teaches and lessons he takes for himself and trips to different studios and a two week intense choreography boot-camp at NYU for some undergrad’s dance team and then going back in early November for their competition. It’s one thing to laugh and look at each other and joke about finding the time to be people, to be a couple, to be friends. It’s another to live it.

In Americanism, the term is “workaholic.”

Victor never thought of himself as one before. He’d never had reason to. There’d been nothing to cause friction in his life because everything was glacial ice, everything was him and his skates and doing what he needed to keep rising. It didn’t matter if he went home exhausted, if he barely saw home. It didn’t matter that he barely talked to anyone or if he did, it was to take respite in an indulgent meal or to go dancing and kiss a stranger who admired the product of all his hard work.

He took Makkachin with him as much as possible, once she’d healed up from getting spayed, which left Yuuri home alone. It left Yuuri in Russia, with his stilted grasp of the language, his slow learning of streets, his new sense of belonging that was happening without Victor there. Logically, Victor knew that Yuuri must be lonely but Yuuri, as was his habit, never said the words. And this time, Victor didn’t have the freedom to go hunting down clues and answers.

 At first, early in the season, Victor would come home after practice and eat something protein packed and healthy and he’d nap and Yuuri would be there and they’d patch together a relaxing evening. Yuuri came to nearby competitions. Then slowly, that became more and more difficult. They managed, kept track of each other, talked plenty in the off-moments of their lives. Texts, pictures, voice messages left to make the other smile. If they couldn’t get a meal together, they’d leave each other prepared plates or small glossy boxes from a bake shop with something they shouldn’t be eating tucked inside with a sweet note. Until Victor really had to stop eating like that and Yuuri was getting more and more tired of eating alone.

Then Yuuri started hanging out with the friends he’d made. Anna and her wife, and Alexi and Chung and Victoria Li who everyone called Vitya and made Yuuri’s jaw ache from clenching it in want to say that name in his bed again. And Victor wanted Yuuri with him at more competitions, or sort of always, couldn’t he change his lessons? No, he couldn’t. Shouldn’t Victor be happier that Yuuri was finally dancing and teaching like he should have been for years and years? And then when they were together, too often one or both of them was exhausted. Or in a weird head space. Yuuri got used to doing his own thing, of messaging Phichit and his sister or the Nishigoris. His day-to-day become solitary once more, no more “we did” but “I did,” until he wrapped himself up in only dance so that there was no reason for anyone to ask of anything new. He danced and taught dance. That was all. Just like it became mostly all Victor oculd say was that he’d skated, gone to practice, had a competition.

Victor called Yuuri from one city to tell him he’d was staring at the fattest pigeon ever. Yuuri demanded a video and they both clung to this scrap of meaningless chatter, holding onto the phone, until Victor had to go. They had good days, they had love, but they also were now very much out of the honeymoon stage of their relationship.

And then Victor, about to jet off to Skate America where he’d be with Chris for a weekend with firm plans to swing down to Puerto Rico for a day to relax after the competition, had thoughtless and teasing on the edge of mean, a little angry that Yuuri wasn’t willing to join them (“I just can’t justify the expense, Vicchan”) said: “I’m surprised that you’re not more worried about me on an island with Christophe of all people. You know, considering—“ he’d shrugged.

Yuuri, who had been poking at his glasses and watching videos of one of his rehearsals, had turned his head fully, eyes wide, disbelieving. “What did…you say?”

“You know! Because me and Chris,” Victor had crossed his fingers and rubbed them together in demonstration, “and you and you’re—“ he’d waved a hand, encompassing the aura of Yuuri’s anxieties, “and you worry about everything. I’m just surprised. Is all.”

He doesn’t know what he’d thought would happen, what he’d wanted. He’s said the first bit without thinking, but in his explanation, he was definitely thinking. Watching, too, for something. He felt on edge, like his blood was too hot for his skin, like nothing mattered. He wanted to see…what would happen. He wasn’t sure. He wanted to say other things, he wanted to scream at Yuuri and make him come along. He wanted Yuuri to throw back the chair and throw him down and make it so Victor could never say something like that again. He wanted Yuuri to be angrier with him, for always leaving, for being far away, for bringing Yuuri to Russia and not being around enough.

Instead, Yuuri had looked down at his keyboard, hair soft and loose around his face, making him look younger, sweeter, making him look so easy to hurt. Victor wanted Yuuri looking at him. He didn’t care what was in his eyes – suddenly, all this distance made him want to scratch ravines into his life. All the passivity and the routine trips to the airport and Yuuri’s chaste routine kiss goodbyes in the car because he didn’t always get out of the car anymore, were unbearable.

“It’s just funny,” Victor had kept on, when it wasn’t funny, “that you don’t ever worry that I’m around so many people I’ve had sex with. A lot of other men would be.”

“Why are you saying this?” Yuuri whispered, looking up shakily, eyes already stung red. But he was finally looking at Victor, even if the sight now is like a javelin through him. “Are you…do you want me to be jealous or…are you – are you trying to _tell me_ something?”

Victor remembers how he’d smiled, thin and challenging. “Do you think I’d cheat on you?”

There were countless opportunities. There always were. Victor acknowledged them, when they happened, because he had to, was too aware, had to know when it happens so he can always walk away from those offers; he’s walked away a hundred times since Yuuri came into his life.

“No,” Yuuri croaks, brow pulled down, bottom lip sucked into his mouth, let out, quivering. “I don’t – Are you testing me?”

It’s not until Yuuri says it that Victor realizes: _yes_.

He’d left then, left Yuuri crying at the kitchen table. He took a taxi. Turned off his phone and flew across the world and barely got 4th place, scraped his way into the Grand Prix Final. He gave his plane ticket to an American he’d competed again and left Chris to go to Peutro Rico with a new friend.

Yuuri cried when he came home. He’d been waiting at the table, crying, even five days later, like he hadn’t moved since Victor had left. He’d looked up when the door opened, Victor standing on the threshold of his own apartment, luggage hanging heavy on his shoulder, unsure if he was even allowed inside. Waiting to be invited.

“Tadaima,” he’d whispered. Yuuri cried through his “okeiri” and then they fought. Victor had surged forward to yank Yuuri up into a kiss that Yuuri accepted with a moan before anger at being left overwrought his joy at being returned to and he shoved Victor off of him with a demand for an explanation, with a curse at Victor’s selfishness.

“So _now_ you care what I’m doing,” Victor spat.

Yuuri cried through his anger whereas Victor took every bitten word with his chin out, mouth turned up. Guilt and loneliness and missing so bad that it made them angry came out in a vomit of feelings.

“Of course I’m jealous. Of course I worry. I don’t want to have to. I don’t want to doubt you. I don’t want to ask because I don’t think you would, I trust you not to, you’d never do that to me. I know you wouldn’t…you’re not that kind of man.”

“It felt like you didn’t care. We haven’t been together in so long. It’s like you aren’t fighting for me. I don’t know. I’m sorry. There’s only you, Yuuri, I swear, I only want you. I just – I need more. I don’t know. I don’t know why I said what I said but I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“Have faith in me, like I have in you.”

Victor had hugged him, promising he would, and felt, it seemed for the first time in months, Yuuri’s body.

“When did you get so skinny?” Victor had gasped, pulling his shirt up. “What happened?”

Yuuri, looking sad, had laughed. What else did Victor think would happen when Yuuri left his office job and started dancing all day every day? Or shared the same diet as a competitive athlete? Unsaid, but suspected was the accusation: you have no idea what he’s been eating or how often. It made Victor cry, hands cradling the taut lines of Yuuri’s hipbones and not a comforting layer of fat; not because of how Yuuri looked but because he hadn’t noticed. It was proof of how long it’d been since he’d really been with Yuuri.

It was the worst way to deal with what he’d been feeling, but at least it broke the building silence between them. Mrs. Petrova did not approve of the method; she’d sighed through her nose, a whistle like a hot kettle. Don’t manipulate your lovers, Victor. It sounded so simple.

It didn’t get better, not immediately. They sat down more, even if they didn’t talk. It stayed rocky up through the Grand Prix, until Yuuri called Victor hours before his skate.

“I’m looking at the fattest pigeon,” Yuuri told him. “The fattest pigeon, ever, Vicchan. Fatter than the one you saw.” Victor had him turn on his video and then he’d seen his hotel room in Yuuri’s view and Yuuri met him at the rink and watched Victor get silver but it barely mattered. Yuuri was supposed to be guest judging a competition in New York City. Instead, he was in Barcelona.

 

* * *

 

And now, Yuuri’s in Yekaterinburg, meeting Victor at the Kiss and Cry with Yakov. He’s clapping as Victor takes gold at Russian Nationals, holding two world records; he’s making small talk with the wife of twenty-five year old Mikhail, the previous gold winner of the Russian Nationals; Mikhail announces his retirement. He was Victor’s biggest competition. Someone says Nikiforov is the new best skater in Russia. They talk of him to be the best in the world. They toast him, at the banquet. They bring out a cake for him: lemon. No one cares that the skaters will barely eat any. Victor, beautiful and charming, invites up the gold medalist from the women’s skate and Mikhail, to blow out the candles with him. It makes a great picture. Galina, his PR agent, commends him on the move. Victor has his public face on. Makkachin is in their hotel room. Victor isn’t confident enough yet to bring Makkachin to an official event like this, to the press circle. He doesn’t want to answer questions. Victor’s side looks empty without her. Yuuri wonders what it’s like for Victor, that any act of kindness he should make is turned into publicity and taken away from him. He forgave Victor earlier this month but he does it again, consciously, remembering the hurt he’d felt and tracing it forward to this point: I forgive you.

 

Victor’s pleasantly buzzed when they make it back to their hotel room. Makkachin bowls him over first thing, then makes a point to shed all over his and Yuuri’s suit pants. She’s energetic but not too bad considering they had her professionally walked three times today. He strips out of his suit perfunctorily and flops onto the faux-leather couch with his dog, in just his boxers and socks.

“I can’t believe Mikhail is retiring. He hasn’t _not_ podium in two years.”

Yuuri doesn’t know him or his career, Victor knows, so he doesn’t mind the vague conversational hum Yuuri makes as he undresses more slowly, hanging up both of their suits. Victor watches him from where he hangs his head over the arm of the couch.

“I suppose he’s old, for the sport.” Three years older than Victor. Neither of them say the math out-loud.

“Younger than me and already done with his professional career,” Yuuri acknowledges, displacing. “Are you relieved, with him no longer in competition with you?”

“No.” Victor doesn’t need to think about it. He’d been disappointed. He’d felt an electric sympathetic fear and sadness when Mikhail had leaned into the microphone and politely, stiffly, made his declaration. Yakov had turned to his coach, whispering something. Only three years older and he was leaving the circuit. Younger than Yuuri, Yuuri who was just now returning to his passion. Twenty-five. “He was good. Obviously. So good, Yuuri. What a shame for us all.”

Yuuri shoos Makkachin off the couch and sits down in her place, pulling Victor’s feet into his lap. He has a black shiny box with a gold, ostentatious bow tied around it. It matches Victor’s skates. “His wife told me that they want to start a family. I think he will find himself fulfilled in short order.”

“Babies,” Victor gasps, maybe drunker than he thought because the idea excites him. A lot. “He’s going to make _babies_. Then he may leave,” Victor says with a noble wave of his hand, a king dismissing his court. “He can bring his babies to see me skate and all will be forgiven.”

“Forgiven, hmm?” Yuuri rubs Victor’s feet with a proprietary hand. “I’m sure he will be glad to hear that Victor Nikiforov will forgive his departure in exchange for a baby. A first born son, perhaps?” Victor lets his eyes close when Yuuri rubs his arches, hissing slightly at the mindful application of pressure.

“You’re so _mean_ to me, Yuuri. Mikhail is a patient man. I remember once- being on a flight with him and there was a screaming baby and this woman, so flustered, and she dropped the bottle and he went back three rows and got on his knees to find it. That is a good man. He knows how to hold babies. It is respectable.” Victor opens his eyes and pokes his foot into Yuuri stomach, then pokes the box with his big toe. “Is that for me?”

“This?” Yuuri holds up the box. It catches the lamplight enticingly. “No. It’s for Makkachin. She’s such a good girl.”

 _“Yuuri~”_ Victor clambers into Yuuri’s lap and kisses him, laughing; drops his head onto Yuuri’s shoulder and squirms when Yuuri nibbles gently on his earlobes. “I thought you weren’t getting me a present? We’re going to your family’s for the holiday.” He doesn’t think he deserves anything, truth be told. But he can’t say that. They’re as good as new, once more, brightly happy.

“I bought it months ago and never it gave it to you. There,” Yuuri clears his throat, no longer kissing Victor. He rubs a hand up and down Victor’s back, and Victor knows this beat of silence, “there hadn’t been a good time.”

So he says nothing and waits. Yuuri fidgets and finally pushes him back in his lap, looks at him.

“There’s a real gift, in Hasetsu, waiting for you. For us. Uhm. This is,” his face goes red and Victor’s curiosity is piqued. “It’s nothing. You know what it is. Consider it – congratulations.” Yuuri shoves the box into his chest and scratches his nose, pokes his glasses up with his ring finger. “Congratulations, on your gold. You were inspiring.”

Victor’s honestly surprised when he opens the box and peels back the tissue paper. Yuuri half covers his face with a hand.

“I don’t, god, I don’t know if you still want it. You don’t have to wear it. I just, I bought it after, and then it didn’t come for weeks and then we were – we weren’t, uhm—“

Victor tosses the box onto the cushion beside them and holds up the pink collar reverently. “I want it,” he whispers, silencing Yuuri. His head’s buzzing. The leather’s cool tothe touch, a pretty, almost juvenile color. It’s so sweet looking, so pretty. The pink and rose gold, the little heart. Yuuri’s eyes are wide, searching his own. Victor smiles and kisses him on the lips. “I want it. Thank you.”

Victor had assumed that after the _debacle_ at Le Le Citron that Yuuri wouldn’t want anything to do with collars or advancing the dynamic of Victor’s puppy games. Evidently, that wasn’t the case. How could he have doubted Yuuri’s willingness to play with him? To give him the things that he wants? How does he ever doubt Yuuri, when Yuuri rises again and again to meet his needs and wants?

He stares at the pink collar, the pretty thing he wanted, to be a pretty puppy, Yuuri’s good pretty puppy. It was a gift to spoil him with. Victor could put this on and know he wouldn’t have to worry about much else but pleasure and Yuuri and relaxing with someone who’s seen the worst of him and loves him anyway. Was that him, still? Yuuri had bought this months ago and said himself that he hadn’t felt right about giving it to Victor. Because Victor didn’t deserve this collar, something rich and bright, something that he could take pictures of himself wearing, something he could slink out of the house in with a coy smile, run his fingers over – over the fine delicate metal, the craftsmanship. _They_ hadn’t been right.

Fuck. He half wishes it was the black trap collar, the one that had choked him. Right now, he thinks he’s better suited for lashes of leather around his throat and the dizzy punishment of _never-enough_. He feels his face heat thinking about it, how just it would be for Yuuri to seal him into layer after layer of leather, slide the straps through a lock that demands much of him, let them get tighter and tighter in rough play until Victor could only think about his next breath, about the sluggish pulse of blood going up his artery, about the imprint of lattice work that held his throat stiff and straight and perfect for Yuuri to slide his cock down into while Victor shivered weakly and swallowed. It’d be right, for him to be bound like that, until Yuuri saw fit to squeeze his throat, to take it all away; to surrender to Yuuri’s hand until Yuuri set him free again.

“Vicchan?” Yuuri prompts nervously, touching his hand. Victor jerks, closing his fingers around the collar, pulling it towards his chest like he expects Yuuri to take it from him. “Sorry.” Yuuri holds up his hand, nonthreatening, startled in return by Victor’s reflex. He points a delicate finger at Victor’s crotch “You’re—uhm – you’re hard, Puppy.”

He is. His dick has grown up out of his black panties, hanging heavy over the elastic. He knows it’s from thinking about the _other_ collar, and not this one. The one Yuuri had bought him because that’s what Victor had wanted. Had thought he should wear.

“Are you okay?”

Victor looks up from analyzing his own erection. He tilts his head, grinning. “I’m great! Why wouldn’t I be?” He’s still holding the collar to his chest, fingers clenched so hard the metal’s leaving imprints in the curl of his hand.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says carefully. He touches, just his fingertips, to the head of Victor’s cock, making Victor gasp and shift in his lap. “This part of you seems happy but—“ Yuuri frowns and touches one sticky finger to Victor’s smiling mouth. “This is fake.”

Victor licks the pad of Yuuri’s finger, as Yuuri knew he would. After a moment, he lets the smile drop, lets his hands fall to Yuuri’s lap, the collar with it. He has to…he has to talk. He knows it. He’s telling himself: _tell Yuuri. Tell him. You have to tell him._ He’s already messed up the smile. Yuuri sees through him too easily these days. He can’t lie anymore; Yuuri will know. Victor will make Yuuri cry again. “I don’t feel like I deserve this,” he admits, shoulders slumping.

“A present or…the collar?” Yuuri asks. His hands hover, timid. Victor hates when he’s like that. Especially when he’s the reason for Yuuri’s second-guessing.

“Both? Mostly, this.” Victor pushes the collar at him, makes Yuuri take it. He blows out a breath and slides off Yuuri’s lap and whistles once for Makkachin to rouse herself from a doze and climb onto the couch with him. He buries his hands into her curls and tries not to be so obvious. He used to think he wasn’t transparent, but Yuuri’s gotten to know him too well, so well that he turns Victor’s inside out with confrontation. Facing Yuuri means he has to face himself, and isn’t that a trip and a half.

“Okay.” Yuuri fiddles with the collar, undoing the little gold chains. It’s sturdy but fashionable. It’s a good one, something Victor could wear in public, make a statement with without heavy everyone pointing and going “you like to be told you’re a good boy, don’t you?” although, Chris would say _that that’s obvious enough, love, why try to hide it?_

“I think you deserve it,” Yuuri says after a moment, laying the collar flat across his thigh. “But can you explain to me why you don’t?”

Both of their therapists would be so proud.

“I haven’t been good,” Victor says, like it doesn’t matter, shrugs with one shoulder. He strokes Makkachin’s head, pets down her fur. “I haven’t –“ he pauses. “I haven’t felt good, Yuuri. Been feeling good. I feel….”  He has a new gold medal, new records, new sponsorships. Mikhail is going to start a family. He made Yuuri cry. “Tired and, like my days are between, this uh, _poshlost_ and _avos, da?_ Fabricated..posed success and expected glory. I am being Victor Nikiforov. Do you know? Very busy. Skate skate skate,” he twiddles his fingers in the air, making a ‘whoosh’ with his breath.  He taps them on Yuuri’s thighs with an imaginary toe pick and then retreats his touch. “Not like your good puppy. Not like I can be here.” He presses on the collar, then, on Yuuri, weight and warmth and longing.

“Okay,” Yuuri says again. It’s one of his American habits, Victor thinks. When he came back from New York City, he’d been _so_ talkative, talking right into other people’s sentences. It’d taken a few days for Russia to wear him down again. “When you say puppy, do you mean when you play puppy, or are you, do you, do you mean boyfriend? Cause you haven’t – I didn’t give it to you because we were both busy and then I thought I’d wait for your birthday. Uhm. This isn’t – it’s not even your real gift.”

“You got me something else?” Victor can’t help but look at Yuuri, warmed at the idea that Yuuri’s doing even more for him. Yuuri bites his lip and nods. He’s clutching the collar in both hands. Poor thing. It deserves better than this.

“It’s in Hasetsu. Well,” Yuuri laughs awkwardly. “Yeah. It’s in Hasetstu. Oh, ffffuck,” Yuuri laughs again, a sound and not a feeling, and scrubs a hand over his face, bumping his glasses. He folds his hand over his eyes, taking respite in the moment, maybe blinking back tears of his own. He certainly swallows tight and audible. “Okay. We fought. It happens. We fought. We are better now, _ne_?” Yuuri uncovers his eyes and manages a smile for Victor. “You weren’t a bad puppy. You’re always a good puppy. Don’t – this,” Yuuri taps the collar. “This is for you. When you want it. If you want it. It doesn’t have to be now.”

Victor nods sharply.

“I could have been a better boyfriend too, Vicchan. It isn’t all on you, to do everything. I should have been prepared for the intensity. It’s your career, it’s very demanding.”

“Yes,” Victor sighs, dropping his head forward. His hair falls down over his face, loose now from the banquet. “I don’t think I ever noticed how intense it is until you. It is…not easy. No…Very hard.”

Yuuri hums. “I asked Lilia, about her and Yakov. She said they went through worse, far worse, than what we’re dealing with. They didn’t have cell phones.”

“You talked to Lilia about us?” Victor didn’t think Yuuri would talk to anyone but Phichit about them, maybe the Nishigoris, or his sister. Yuuri doesn’t share with people. Victor didn’t think Yuuri regarded his relationship with Lilia as anything other than reverent tutelage. Was it too much to hope that Yakov never found out? Lilia doesn’t strike him as someone to break confidences, even to her husband, but Victor had grown up under both of them; he suspects that he’s the exception to a lot of rules.

“I, uh, yes? When you – Skate America. She was in town and we had plans prior to get tea.” Yuuri crosses and uncrosses his arms. “Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I was – I needed someone, who knew you, and well…dated a competitive athlete.” He laughs nervously again, the habit less and less comforting to hear, and clenches his hands into his pantlegs. Victor can’t stand to see him fidget and takes up one of his hands, stroking over his knuckles. Yuuri freezes for a second before thawing and relaxing towards him; they meet somewhere in the middle to cuddle, heads resting together.

“So she said we need to grow the fuck up?” Victor guesses. Yuuri snorts and rolls his mouth into Victor’s hair, brushes at him with his lips. Breathes him in not so subtly. “Because…it’s not as bad as we think it is?”

“Mhmmm.”

It probably isn’t. Maybe it was bad, for a few days, but it’s been healing ever since. Actually healing, and not just scarring over. They aren’t limping through the pain. They reset the bone. Because Yuuri – because _he_ and Yuuri care enough to fix it.

“Fuck,” Victor bites out, tired as a pressure leaves his chest. “I love you.”

Yuuri giggles, a little desperate. It’s better to hear, like there’s finally something to be joyful about. “I love you too.” He presses a hard kiss to Victor’s temple, holding it. Yuuri sits back and catches his chin, turning Victor’s face to look at him. There’s a serious line in his brow that makes Victor a little nervous. “You deserve it. Love. Forgiveness. Kindness. You’re coming home to my family, so you’re going to have to get used to being spoiled.”

“The injustice,” Victor jokes, curling up against Yuuri’s chest. “The Katsuki’s will take another prisoner.”

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 They leave directly from Yekaterinsburg, with a layover in Seoul. Yuuri is a mess, panicking about Makkachin getting separated and patting his pocket constantly for his passport and asking Victor ten million times if he has everything; it’s a relief that they sleep through both their flights, blessedly, and are dazed zombies when Mari picks them up in her pickup truck. Yuuri loads the luggage into the bed on autopilot and straps it down while Victor steals shot gun and warns Mari to drive carefully because Yuuri’s about one fast swerve from a meltdown. She mindfully doesn’t yell at any drivers that cut her off as they exit the airport complex.

Snow blankets the ground but the roads are clear, slick and black all the way to Hasetsu. Yuuri nods off in the cab, Makkachin stretched out across his lap. Victor puts the window down and sticks his head out, ignoring the cold, to breathe in the brined air. He’s back in Japan. Almost a year later, he’s back, spun around the world again, around in his head. This time, he’s leaving the airport with Yuuri, with a dog they share, returning to Yuuri’s family. Maybe to become family with them. For as much as his life seems out of his control, as strange and spiraling as the past year has been, like a drunken pirouette, seeing the dark sea stream by the road, the fairy island of Hasetsu climbing closer to him, the freeness of unknowing comforts him. This time, he’s not running away, he’s not begging for time.

They cross the bridge, bump onto Hasetsu’s main street, and Victor finally feels victorious.

 

 

If Hiroko and Toshiya had been kind and welcoming of Victor before, after nine months of dating their son, they’re practically fusing into Victor with the intensity of the hugs they lavish on him.

“You did so good, Vicchan! In your skates! What a magnificent son we have,” Hiroko coos, patting his cheeks. “But so skinny. Look at you. And _Yuuri!?_ ” Hiroko descends on Yuuri, pinching at his lack of stomach. Yuuri mumbles and gives up, hugging his mom and accepting her pat-down. Victor avoids her eyes, convinced that she’s sending him a look of judgment and disappointment for taking care of Yuuri.

Toshiya tries to get out their luggage and Victor lopes over to the truck to help him, afraid for Yuuri’s father’s old back. Yuuri’s clucking in Japanese while Mari makes a stealthy escape into the inn to leave the fussing to her parents.

“My dudes!” is the unexpected English called from the steps of the inn. Victor and Yuuri both turn to the sound, grins quickly spreading. “It took you long enough.”

“Who invited this guy?” Yuuri mocks in some bastardized Italian accent (it sounds like something from an American movie). He slips from Hiroko’s hands to chase up the steps and into a hug with Phichit. They speak Thai to each other, voices dropped. There’s laughter from both. Phichit gives Victor a surreptious and meaningful look.  Victor drags their bags towards the house, patient, wanting his own hugs, thinking: _I will say yes to Yuuri and we will celebrate surrounded by everyone. If only Chris was here._

It’s chaos for a long time after that. Victor meets Phichit’s parents and sister, and he and Yuuri make half-assed attempts to unpack, this time staying in Mari’s old bedroom that hasn’t lost its charm of weird band posters. Yuuri’s a messy mix of travel-exhausted and overwhelmed, instinctively playing host Victor and the Chulanonts even though in his heart of hearts all that he wants is to be lazy in bed and do nothing for a the day. There’s absolutely no chance of that.

The Chulanonts and the Katsuki’s had never met prior to this, although they were not strangers. They, recognizing their sons’ enduring friendship, exchanged occasional items of mail and well-wishes. As it is, Phichit and Yuuri are pleased to see them all not only getting along but becoming fast friends. Phichit and his parents are all jovial and loud, matching the energy that the Katsuki’s keep in bounty around the inn. Everyone is deeply invested in eating and eating a lot. Phichit’s sister, Sasi, doesn’t talk much, at odds with her brother, but she tags along with the older kids.

Older kids. _Ha_. There’s an equal age gap between Victor and Sasi as there is between him and Yuuri. That’s an uncomfortable feeling. It last only a minute until Yuuri timidly runs his pinkine finger along Victor’s pinkie finger at dinner, a mindless gesture of affection, and Victor latches them together in a promise beneath the table. Then it doesn’t matter a bit.

Yuuri and Takeshi and the triplets meet them before dinner with _their_ parents, and they’re joined by Minako, and the inn’s services are closed for the day as a veritable clan sits down around several kotatsus pushed together, nineteen pairs of feet warming up together en mass. After dinner, Hiroko and Yuuri turn off the lights and emerge from the kitchen with a small fortress of _mochi_ alight with twenty-two candles. It’s the worst rendition of Happy birthday in English he’s ever heard, and he’s been in international spaces for years. A Japanese variation fairs better. The Chulanonts toast him in Thai. Yuuri whispers, just for him, _Исполнения всех желаний. May all his wishes come true._

It’s the first time since he was a child and too young to recognize the distance between him and his parents, too young to be anything but gleeful and surrounded by schoolmates, that he’s been celebrated with this level of sincerity. Because he’s him, not because he won this or did that. Mari flicks a bottle cap at him; the triplets climb on him like he’s a jungle gym; Makkachin whines pointedly at the food on the table; Hiroko keeps sneaking food on his plate while Toshiya gets too close with a video camera that looks like it’s from the 90s, face stamped into the big rubber lens, calling him “birthday boy,” like he’s his own, like Victor’s a child.

“I told you that you’d be spoiled,” Yuuri says, eyes sparkling, pink with embarrassment or pride or both.

“You weren’t joking.” Victor looks around with a wild grin, uncomprehending. It doesn’t matter that it’s the twenty-seventh of December. When he’d turned twenty-one, he’d been hiding in France. He bought himself a drink and then let a man buy him a drink. What had he said, as his pick up line: no one should drink alone on Christmas? And Victor had smiled wondering what the stranger would say if he knew it was also his birthday. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Yuuri touches his hand, catching Victor’s attention. The touch, just fingertips, dances up his arm, lifts to his face to tuck a lock of hair behind Victor’s ear. It’s gentle, intimate, makes Victor’s breath catch with the familiarity of its private affection. He rolls his cheek into Yuuri’s hand, shifting closer. Yuuri’s lips are sticky and sweet from _mochi_ , pickled prunes and bean paste. Victor quivers into the kiss, wanting more after it ends, brief and chaste and full of promises. That’s Victor’s favorite thing about kisses with Yuuri, how full of promise they are. He always knows there’s more to them than just one kiss.

“You were a shameless, needy, troublesome boy,” Yuuri reminds him, stroking up the back of his neck with an idle finger, tracing patterns of heat and shivers. “That I couldn’t not fall in love with.”

Victor laughs wetly, pressing his forehead to Yuuri’s. He’s ready to fall apart, maybe drunk, gripping Yuuri’s free hand. Yuuri’s trembling too, clutches his hand back hard, interlocks their fingers. “Let me rephrase,” Victor manages to say. The noise around them has grown distant, like coffee-shop chatter. “What did I do to deserve you, Katsuki Yuuri? My—“ he kisses Yuuri, quick and hard, tasting a desperate sigh shared between them, “sweet, perfect, master, master of my heart? _Solnyshka, radost_ _moya_?”

Yuuri giggles, kisses him again. They’re tipsy, they wouldn’t be doing this normally in front of all of Yuuri’s family. But they can’t stop, trading little kisses like children, each one coming faster and faster even as they break away to bump noses and smile and scoot closer and closer.

“Puppy,” Yuuri kisses the corner of his eye, breathing out through his nose, groaning in his throat like he’s weary with a trouble, “I’ve asked myself that every day since I’ve met you.”

“Oh,” Victor says. He sits back, regarding Yuuri’s red face, his dopey, embarrassed smile, his glasses slipping down his knows and hair messy over his face. “Still don’t know?”

“No idea.”

Victor tries to kiss him again, but Yuuri’s mouth is soft, slack as he thinks. Victor bites his lip but sits back, knowing Yuuri has something else to say. His eyes are glowing, wide and blown as they stare into Victor’s. “Whatever it was –I hope – I want to spoil you forever.”

 

 

[Yuuri’s cupping the back of Victor’s head, their noses touching, staring into each other’s eyes while surrounded by an expansive family]

**201,592 likes**

**Phichit+chu** I was going to make fun of them for kissing in the corner at the party but they’re so in love it’s too pure, too good.

 

 

Victor eats so much he can’t swallow, and then he drinks so much he’s growing gills, and sleeps so long he wakes up with gray hair. Ha!

 

Yuuri’s hung over and grumbly, clinging to Victor and pushing him away in alternation of discomfort. Victor teases him only a little before he gets him some tea to settle his stomach. Yuuri, Toshiya, Mari, Phichit, his dad, Takeshi, both of Yuuko’s parents, and Minako had engaged in some sort of battle that’d been a jumbled mess of Japanese, Thai, and English but they’d abandoned the board games and somehow karaoke got involved and Victor has _so_  much blackmail.

There’s a messy photo on Phichit’s instagram. Everyone agreed that a keg would have been better for the occasion than the seemingly endless bottles of beer and sake strewn across tables.

Victor takes a run around the island, twice, working off jet lag and his indulgences, and comes back to the house properly woken up, stirring with energy for another day of family shenanigans. Yuuri’s off with Minako, only for a little, so Victor and Phichit hang out in the springs. They talk expansively. Phichit and his personality fit well, both exuberant and loud. Phichit has a big view of the world; he’s involved in development projects for anyone from big companies to small entrepreneurs; he somehow knows someone everywhere. It’s sort of funny, to think about him and Yuuri as best friends. The world wants to know and love Yuuri, but Yuuri faces it with confusion and suspicion, whereas Phichit greets it head-on.

“I’m a mogul, Vicchan,” Phichit says with a friendly pat on his shoulder. The steam from the spring rises heavily around them, vanishing off into the cold December air. Phichit and his family are grateful for the springs. The excitement of being in cold weather, of touching snow, wore off quickly. “In a few years, I’ll start my own company and in a few years after that, this beautiful Thai face will be in _all_ the magazines. You ruined mine and Yuuri’s twenty year plan, though. _Bummer_.”

“Twenty year plan?” Victor’s eyes spark with curiosity. “It wasn’t one of those, how are they called, marriage pacts? If you’re both single you’ll—“

Phichit throws his head back to laugh, nearly braining himself on the rock behind him.

“No, no….well…unofficially, yes.” He slits a challenging look at Victor. “Because who am I kidding, who wouldn’t marry Yuuri?”

 _I’m going to_ , Victor thinks triumphantly. He can’t keep the smirk off his lips.

“No. It was a business plan. He would keep doing his financial writing and business writing until he too made a name for himself. Then, he would cover my start-up and make sure my story got written and read. We’d work together to build,” Phichit lifts a hand out of the water, dripping, flourishing it, stirring the steam, “an awesome empire.”

“Wow.” Victor whistles. “Not bad.”

 _“I know_ ,” Phichit boasts. He flicks Victor on the arm. “But now you’ve returned him to the performance arts. Way to _fuck it up_.”

Victor always thought they he was saving Yuuri from some boring office job, from wasting away. Yuuri never said anything about this plan with Phichit. He’d said, several times, that he liked his job and learned a lot and traveled a lot…was it returning Yuuri to dance to taking him away from something else? Victor already drug him across Asia, away from _all this_.

“Hey.”

Victor blinks free from his thoughts, smiling automatically at Phichit. “Hmm?”

 “I’m teasing you,” Phichit says gently, peering at him through the steam. “Yuuri’s doing the thing he really loves now. He’s happy.”

Neither of them are prepared for how small Victor’s voice is when he asks: “is he?”

Bless Phichit, because he doesn’t linger on the break in their good humor. “ _Dude,”_ he says empathetically, and Victor can see Phichit at nineteen in America, “Yuuri wouldn’t bring you here to make you family if he wasn’t.” He stares at Victor’s surprised face and tsks. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

 

They celebrate the new year with homemade sparkling wine, warm sake, salty herring and dried squid.

 

 

* * *

 

“Makkachin is going to go through withdrawal when he go back to Russia,” Yuuri notes one morning. The triplets and Sasi are on the floor with her, colouring in books and petting her alternatively. She hasn’t had less than two sets of hands stroking her fur at any given point for four days straight. It’s a good way to make it up to her for the extensive air travel.

“I’m going to go through withdrawal,” Victor whines, pushing his head back into Yuuri’s hands. Yuuri sighs affectionately and cards his fingers through Victor’s hair. Victor’s on the floor, folding robes and towels – he had to fight to be allowed to help with chores. He’s been in the spring so often half of the towels are his. There are always always always towel that need washing and folding – and Yuuri’s on the couch behind him, legs spread around Victor. He’s supposed to be brushing and braiding Victor’s hair but he gets distracted easily. “I want to live here. Let’s move here.”

“When we’re older,” Yuuri says easily, automatically, like he’s thought about it. He has, hasn’t he? Victor smiles down at the towels.

“After I retire?”

“Mhmm.”

 “And you…take over Minako’s studio?”

“Mhmm.”

“And I become a coach at Ice Castle?”

“If that’s what you want to do.”

“Maybe.” Victor doesn’t know yet. He’s not good at helping other skaters. He gets asked for help a lot, by the brave or the young or the determined. He doesn’t know how to explain skating other than by showing a jump to someone again and again, or making them do it again or again. He’s better at choreography. The world’s too narrow, his own goals too sharp. He can’t spend time on others that aren’t on his level when he’s focused on climbing higher and higher.

“You’re right. When we’re older.” They both have so much to do. Mikhail, twenty-five. That’s too young. How badly did his body ache? How much did he miss his wife, want babies, want to…to learn all the other things he could be good at? Victor bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t notice that he’s stopped folding towels and is sitting there staring at the pile. What if Mikhail hates being retired? Will he show up at competitions, staring at the ice? Will he do ice shows that prove that he should have stayed in competition?

A comb cuts through his hair, teeth sliding through long silk tresses. “What are you thinking about?”

“Mikhail.” Victor makes his hands move. He straightens the corner of his fold. “I should tell him to come here and soak in the spring. It will be a good way to recover.”

“Vicchan?” Hiroko’s calling for him. “Vicchan? Yuuri, where is – on the floor. Hello, Vicchan. You are slow.” She points at the half done pile. “Yuuri, finish this. Vicchan, I need your body.”

 _“Mama,_ ” Yuuri groans. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what? You told me I need his body.” Hiroko waves her hand in beckoning.

“Are you pimping me to your mother?” Victor whispers to Yuuri who goes red and horrified and tugs on his hair. Victor bites Yuuri’s thigh, quick and sharp. “How cruel. It was all just a trap.”

“You’re messed up,” Yuuri scolds. He says something in Japanese, Victor thinks, asking for a minute of time. He turns Victor back around on the floor and finally braids his hair. He wraps the plait in a bun atop Victor’s head and secures it with the jade pin and a tie. “Go.”

“What am I doing?” Victor asks, rising, being pulled away immediately by Hiroko. “ _Nani?”_

 

It’s cold and quiet as Victor and Hiroko walk down crooked, narrow roads. Hiroko asks Victor if he’s having fun, if he’s sleeping, what he wants to eat, how is Russia, how is Yuuri doing, they should call more, when will they visit next, did Yuuri really help him choreograph his sad dance, why _did_ he pick such a sad song for his free skate?,

Victor answers everything as best he can. The matter of his routines, he has a lot of answers for that. He tells her what he said in his interviews. He chose [_"_ Daniel Cowman"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhk_S0HyQp4) because it contrasted with _agape._ He felt that he was exploring opposite concepts. Unconditional love, and rather than hate, as would be too cliché, a resignation to death. A pitiable regret that death comes. That the song reminds him of his favorite book, A Dream of a Ridiculous Man, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. That yes, Yuuri helped him. That he, not feeling pressure to go over the top on jumps like he had last season, wanted a piece that was more artistic in movement, more gestural. It had a lot of spins and a lot of Yuuri’s ballet influence. Minako and Lilia both approved of his routine.

The video of Yuuri performing it in his studio was met with acclaim. A few music video producers are emailing him about potential work. Yuuri still isn’t grasping his rising fame.

“I know that,” Hiroko interrupts. She’s still smiling, but there’s something under her patient expression. A tenderness that Victor doesn’t know how to recognize in a mother. She touches his hand, holding onto him as they cross a small patch of ice. He loops her arm through his like a gentleman and she pats his elbow. “Yuuri translates your interviews. He is good like that. Why is your favorite story a man who wants to die?”

“He’s selfish,” Victor says, caught out. He looks down at their feet, at the slush kicked away onto the street. “The world is small. It will end with him. But it doesn’t. He thinks he will die and all will disappear, because the world is just him. Then, he – the dream. He remembers the innocence and love of people. Humanity.” Victor tries to find the word in Japanese, looking to Hiroko until she nods. He lapses back to English, then Japanese again, sighing. “It’s hard to explain. Both pieces are about love. And, when there is not love. But Daniel Cowman,” Victor waves a hand flightily in the air. “He doesn’t get to have that dream. He will die without…anything. With _toska_ in his heart. A suffering.” He taps his chest, his heart.  “It takes me over, thinking about this. I’m propelled, uh, pushed,” he moves his hand in the air to help his sentiment along, “by _nadryv_. Something comes out of me in that routine, in that song. From deep inside.”

“You feel it. Very alone.” Hiroko leans her weight onto him, making Victor feel strong as he keeps her steady. “You like because…you are not alone?”

They don’t look at each other.

“Not anymore,” Hiroko corrects gently.

“I think so,” Victor whispers. She stops him in front of the bike rental shop. The bell above the door chimes and a narrow woman watching tv and eating a pudding cup waves at them and greets them in a Kyushu accent so thick Victor’s ears ring.

She dresses Victor in a winter kimono. It’s layers and layers of fabric, all blues and whites. He stands still, letting her deck him in the layers until he’s snug with the weight and growing too warm in the little shop. He wouldn’t stop her for anything. It’s beautiful. Dark navy sits beneath a lighter, softer blue, and the final outter layer, the one with long sleeves that remind him of magic and royalty, is a crisp, shimmery white with pale blue stitching, of ocean waves that rise up towards the gesture of stars and a moon; it fits him; Yuuri knows his measurements and sent them to his mother. Victor doesn’t know what to do, standing and being plucked at by the seamstress, Hiroko smiling approvingly at him.

“So beautiful! This is from all of us, to go with Yuuri’s surprise.”

The words snatch Victor from a dreamy reverie as he watches the kimono come together in the mirror with a dark sash, tied in a way that he’ll never be able to replicate.

 _“Hiroko– Mama,_ ” Victor shakes his head, undone, unable to accept – how did he end up here, like this? The free-fall sensation clutches him again. He doesn’t know where he is, on this island. He’s outside of everything he ever envisioned. He reaches for her, shaking his head. “This is too much.”

“Hush. Don’t be impolite.” She pats his cheek with both hands, privately upset that he is so narrow and bony and has nothing to squish. “Be a good boy for us. Stand up straight. Yuuri says you like women’s clothes.” She touches his shoulders thoughtfully, having to lift onto her toes to run her hands over the top of his shoulders. “You are big. Strong. Strange boy.”

She and Toshiya rarely wear Western-style clothes, but she thinks Yuuri looks handsome in suits and that Victor would look very handsome too. When he came in the spring, he was either in athletic clothes or long, draping clothes. Lately, she’s seen him and Yuuri sharing sweaters between them.

Victor hums and flexes his arm, making Hiroko laugh and blush as she grips his bicep. He stands back to admire the figure in the full length mirror. He clings to the mirage of that slight body he once had. The colors the same as his _Agape_ costume. Yuuri chose them on purpose. Unconditional love.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor Nikiforov was born poor, to poor people. His father repaired cars. His mother raised him and cleaned houses. When he learned about how babies were made, he figured he’d been an accident. Before that, before he knew families could be made without meaning to, he did not think much of his station in life, of the limitations of love. He tried very hard to be good because he felt too much like a burden otherwise. He never asked for seconds until after his father had stopped eating, he never made his mother ask him to do something twice.

 His father would let him reach his tiny hands into the metal bellies of machines, come back covered in grime and grease, holding whatever small object had been dropped, clanging, amongst gears. His mother would scrub his cheeks with a rag, sun-dried and tatty, smelling like earthy well water, and send him over to the neighbor while she went to work.

All of his classmates knew how to ice skate. They had a store of weathered skates that very rarely fit properly and more often hurt, but being let onto the ice was the most fun of the day. Physical exercise, a break for the teachers, a chance for kids who would probably never be more than their parents to burn off some energy before they got sat at tables once more and made to do maths.

He happened, as these things go, to be very good at skating.

Rare gifts – a brilliant mind, a keen hand for drawing, an athletic predisposition – everyone knew to cultivate these things. He was given the tawdy skates to keep and after school, one of the teachers took him to the ice and gave him hot tea and let him skate until he walked Victor home. Yakov came, after a few months, and sat with his parents, and made everyone’s lives better by taking Victor away to a special kind of school.

Victor Nikiforov was born with brown hair. His mother was born with brown hair, like her brother, like her mother, like her grandfather. When puberty began, Victor’s hair turned gray. The hair on his body turned gray. He felt like a little animal. Like a fox or a weasel, shifting into a winter pelt. It grew lighter. He bought special treatments and shampoos and made it silver, crowned himself a prince. Let it grow like a princess. All this happened far away from his poor town and his poor parents.

Yakov took him at ten. He saw his parents again for the first time when he was fourteen. They looked right past him. They looked at him and said: sorry, we are looking for our son.

He’d laughed. They didn’t have flowers or a stuffed animal for him, but they took him out for street food and told him he did well. He’d gotten silver at the Junior championship. He’d done a quad loop. He told them that Yakov said that he will be a star. He will be put on an Olympic track, prepared, monitored, trained. He felt prophesized. They told him to make Russia proud.

They didn’t hate him, maybe they loved him to the capacity they had. They liked that he was turning into somebody, but they didn’t ever try to be there with him. And Victor – it became easy, to not think about them. They faded in his life. He had parents: “oh yes, they live outside of Kasimov. They come to see me when they can.” Lots of kids didn’t have their parents around. He learned to forget that he missed something until the rare instances when he called them, spur of the moment decisions. He saw a movie and it made him want to talk to his mother or father, or he slipped, sometimes he slipped and called Yakov father and neither of them ever _ever_ talked about it. Victor always laughed after. Yakov would watch him with a furrowed brow, not say anything when Victor walked away to call his home. Sometimes no one picked up. He imagined the old corded phone in the kitchen. It worked, so why should they get a handset phone? If they didn’t pick up, he wouldn’t call back.

When he was sixteen, he landed a quad flip in his first year in the senior division. At seventeen, he moved in with Yakov and Lilia. He had his high school education, or the equivalent. It didn’t matter. The Olympics were around the corner. The Olympics were here. The media called him Russia’s Darling. That’s what people he went to bed with called him too. He kept meaning to ask them to move to St. Petersburg. He could rent them a small apartment, they could sell their small house. Just after the Olympics, his mother called him. His father had cancer. He died two weeks later in a hospital, with Victor there looking at the unfamiliar shrunken body of a man he could only recall as a giant in the memories of a small boy. His mother, chainsmoking, patted his hand and moved in with her sister and her family. She didn’t want to move to St. Petersburg.

“Vitenka, you have grown up wonderfully without us.”

He felt old at nineteen. He was still growing though, still getting taller and broader. He still nicked himself shaving. But he kissed his mother, her smell foreign to him, and set up automatic payments for the hospital bills. There weren’t many. His father hadn’t sought treatment. He had been as grateful as bitter that they hadn’t told him before the competition. They’d spared him the distraction.

On the walk home from the seamstress, Victor is grateful for the distance. It’s a bitter relief. They all did wrong. Whether his parents wanted him or not, they’d had him, and maybe their greatest kindness as parents was making sure Victor grew up without them. He pities them. He can’t even pretend to wonder what they’d think about Yuuri when he doesn’t know what they’d think about him.

He wonders if they were sick like him. He doesn’t know. If they were sad like him. Maybe. If he was sad like how he gets, but poor and far away, would he ever reach for anyone?

 

He attempts, upon returning to the onsen, to continue to be behaved and possess a sense of decorum or propriety but Hiroko looks at his shifting feet and his flitting eyes as they approach and releases him.

“Go see what Yuuri is doing.”

What Yuuri is doing, when Victor bursts into their shared room, is playing some _old_ fighting game with Phichit. Victor spares the boxy, equally old TV a glance: he sees pixels. Large pixels. The remotes have only four buttons and a crosshair direction pad. He doesn’t understand what he’s looking at it and pushes it from his mind.

 _“Yuuri_.”

“V-vic-chan?” Yuuri startle at the bang of the door. He has to drag his eyes from the screen, distracted. Phichit takes the moment of Yuuri’s distraction to break a combo move on Yuuri’s character and KO her. Her sexy, scantily clad pixelated body hits the ground with an overacted moan. As the rematch screen loads, Phichit turns to face the new spectacle, hands resting in his lap like a schoolboy, head cocked, eyes knowing and scandalized and enjoying every second of it.

Victor pins Yuuri to the bed, kissing him, falling all over him. He can hardly find words to begin; a kiss will do. A kiss _must_ do. Yuuri gasps and tries to talk, makes a weak attempt at pushing him off but Victor whines and bites Yuuri’s lip and Yuuri slumps, giving in, giving himself up with a secret pleasure. He cradles Victor, fingers slipping into the loosened bun.

“You love me,” Victor tells him. It tastes somewhere between revelation and spell work. “You love me so much, don’t you?”

Yuuri lays against the bed, dazed, red, dreaming up at him. “You liked it?”

He must be kissed again, there’s nothing else to for it. Victor kisses his nose and his forehead and his sweet cheeks. “Yuuri~ I love it. I can’t wait to wear it for you. I want – I want to wear something else.”

He keeps him pinned to the bed, hands spread out over Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri was sturdy before, a solid bulk, but now there’s distinct muscle flexing and shifting under Victor’s hands. There is a new shape of his body that Victor hasn’t worshipped properly. He’s been sneaking half his meals onto Yuuri’s plate, having to be mindful of his own weight gain, and he hopes give Yuuri something Victor can bite and squeeze once more. He misses all that beautiful fat but he loves this body too; all of Yuuri; always.

Yuuri’s slides his eyes to their corners, taking sight of Phichit still leering, still sitting quietly. “You want to wear…something else? Not – not the kimono?”

It’s like he knows. Victor is sure he knows. His Yuuri is so smart. He’s trying to be discrete.

“Noooo~. My _other_ present,” Victor rubs his hand into Yuuri’s chest, kneading his flesh, rubbing other parts of him too. “ _My collar,”_ he stages whispers, mouth close to Yuuri’s ear but he looks at Phichit, teeth showing in a proud, feral grin.

“P-puppy,” Yuuri groans, closing his eyes, resigning to death. It’s not like Phichit _doesn’t know_. Phichit’s been there since week one of this wacky little adventure Victor calls love. Phichit was under the same suspicions as Yuuri had been when Victor first appeared that Victor was some kind of con artist. That just makes it better that Phichit can see them now, see how Victor preens under the pet name, feeling won and owned and special.

Completely unacceptably, Yuuri tsks out: “Phichit.” 

Victor both thrills and despises the sound of another man’s name in Yuuri’s mouth right now. Victor only wants to hear Yuuri say his sweet names, call for him. But it’s Phichit. He’s warm and trustworthy and Victor wants Phichit to _see him_ in the collar, to understand. Phichit will understand. A thought comes and goes from his mind, peculiar and distracting: Phichit telling Yuuri what a cute Puppy he has. Telling Victor how lucky he is to have Yuuri.

_Who wouldn’t want to marry Yuuri?_

“Yes, Yuuri?” Phichit chirps, biting back a shit eating grin. His dark face is even darker with a blush. Even he can’t stand to look to long at the intimate display, having resigned himself to fiddling with the controller, although a twist of curiosity and envy – about which of them is unclear – has him looking up at them every so often.

“Can you – uh, -- get out, Phichit.” Yuuri has his eyes squeezed shut, his lips rolled into his mouth. Victor wants to make him sigh, relax, come undone. Phichit seeing them like this, he wants it. He wants everyone to see how good he can make Yuuri feel. How much Yuuri loves him.

“Aw, Yuuri,” Phichit pouts. “Vicchan doesn’t mind. He wants to show off.” His voice is high and gay, taunting them both. It makes Victor squirm; it makes him sound like a pet, talked of like that. He doesn’t want to say anything, he just wants to prove Phichit right.

“I—“ Yuuri manages to cover his face, “I don’t know what to do,” he groans and peeks through his fingers at his best friend and his boyfriend. Victor smiles encouragingly and rubs his hands up and down Yuuri’s body. “Get up and I’ll get it.” He drops his hand and braces himself, jaw fixed.

“Yey,” Phichit cheers, clapping his hands excitedly. He pats the spot next to him on the bed while Yuuri shuffles out from under Victor, muttering to himself, and searches through one of his bags. Victor joins him, delirious and untouchable, and takes up the video game controller. It’s stupid because Phichit decimates his avatar in under a minute. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because Yuuri turns around, holding the unbuckled collar in both hands. Victor’s breath catches. It looks better than it did in Yekaterinburg or in the boutique. It’s open and he can see the smooth suede lining, how inviting it looks. He swallows, throat bobbing, dick growing hard and body aching with anticipation.

Yuuri looks up, eyes dark, only for Victor. He’s different, like this, different when he knows Victor’s in a wanting mood. He becomes someone capable of power and satisfaction, someone protective and intuitive. They hold each other’s gazes.

“Show me after, Vicchan,” Phichit cuts in, making both Victor and Yuuri jump. “Model for me. You two…do your thing. Take your time. I’ll tell everyone you’re busy. Bye!” Phichit makes a smooth exit, as smooth as one can in the situation, taking the controllers from the bed and twiddling his fingers in farewell and he closes the door behind him. Yuuri follows him and locks it, breathing out loudly after. Victor holds his breath, kneeling high on the bed, until Yuuri turns and walks back to him.

“You liked it that much?” Yuuri asks, climbing onto he bed with him and touching the back of Victor’s hand chastely, barely brushing his fingers to Victor’s skin. “You’re—“ he doesn’t finish what he was going to say, seeming newly lost as victor meets his eyes with a look of proud adoration.

“You never fail to surprise me, Yuuri,” Victor confers, turning his hand over under Yuuri’s and tracing a single finger up the center of Yuuri’s palm, enticing him. “With the person that you are, what you do, _how_ _you make me feel_. I feel,” Victor bites his lip and brings their mouths together, barely a kiss, shivering as Yuuri’s breath leaves him in a little gasp; his eyes are sprightly, burnt amber cut with gold so close up. Beautiful. Handsome. His lovely master. “Cherished. Spoiled. Safe.”

Yuuri blinks once, face scrunching, eyes going a little red and glossy. Victor presses closer, finding the collar in Yuuri’s hand. He takes Yuuri’s hand up to his lips and kisses the inside of his wrist. “I want my present.”

He wants this forever. 

Yuuri combs out his hair and braids it, twisting and gathering it all into a ballerina’s bun high atop is head. His neck exposed to the cool air, Victor’s heart begins to race as Yuuri traces the tendons of his neck with his fingers, blows a soft breeze behind his ears and kisses behind them too, planting secret smiles. Yuuri doesn’t stop there; Victor sits cross-legged on the bed, Yuuri warm and solid behind him, as Yuuri kisses his neck for what seems hours, never doing more than scraping lightly with his teeth or laving heated skin with his tongue, to taste without devouring. His hands wander, sliding around Victor, pulling him back into his chest, between his legs, letting Victor feel his heat, the hardness of his pleasure and pride in Victor’s eager submission. It’s not until Victor’s primed and tingling all over, every touch, every bit of pressure on him sending pulses of electric currents and a pooling pleasure between his legs, does Yuuri bring the collar up.

It’s been out of his hands, and the leather’s cool as it closes around his throat, sitting below his Adam’s apple and above his collarbones. The delicate, fashionable chains clip into place, a threadlike chill along the knobs of his spin. Yuuri slides a finger underneath the band, his own breath shuddering in Victor’s ear. When he’s satisfied that the heart is front and center and the fit perfect, Yuuri sits back heavily, seemingly exhausted.

“Done?” Victor asks, opening his eyes. He’d closed them during the kisses and felt too weak and pulled under Yuuri’s charm to open them. He’s released from a spell; his hands fly up to his throat, fingering the metal and leather.

Unlike before, when Yuuri’d first given it to him, it feels right and good. He’s excited to wear it, knowing that it’s pretty and sweet and that only a good puppy would get to wear something like this. Yuuri’s family can see him in this; he’d never want Hiroko to see him in the black choke-trap collar. But this? Yes!

 “Let’s take a selfie!”

Yuuri chuckles and braces Victor to him, winding an arm around his waist and resting his chin on Victor’s shoulder. His hair's loose, brushed back from his face, skimming his shoulders. It makes him look older, when it’s back and he doesn’t have his bangs shyly hiding his face. Victor opens snapchat, of course, and finds the puppy filter, of course.

He taps the filter a million times, fussing until finally the Dalmatian ears show up. Brown just wouldn’t look good with his hair, okay?

“I look like Perdita! That makes you my Pongo.”

“Ah,” Yuuri says, racking his brain for the reference. “But _you’re_ the puppy.” He kisses Victor’s cheek, just in time for Victor to snap the picture.

 

Phichit thinks it’s cute and very trendy and Mari raises one eyebrow when Victor wears it to dinner, the collar peaking over the top of his – Yuuri’s – sweatshirt. A hundred people screenshot his snapstory and the picture ends up on the internet in a matter of minutes; Victor doesn’t even have to _try_ to be popular. Gosh, his life is hard.

Yuuri’s hyper-focused on him the rest of the day, eyes on Victor, touching neck fleetingly every few minutes. No one minds them when they disappear off to bed early in the evening. They cuddle and watch a stupid drama on Yuuri’s laptop, both naked save for Victor’s collar, body hidden under the warm comforter.

“Tomorrow,” Yuuri starts. He stops, listening to the show, maybe hiding, mouth pressed to the nap of Victor’s neck, just above the chains.

“Tomorrow?” Victor prompts.

“Your other gift. Uhm. Christmas and birthday –“ he taps the front of the collar, finger tracing the skin framed by the rose gold heart. “It’s tomorrow. The kimono is for you to wear; we’ll all be dressed up.”

“Your family is coming? And the Chulanonts?”

“Mhmm. I wanted everyone to be together. I know you don’t know the Chulanonts well but – I thought – Phichit’s family.” Yuuri’s talking into his skin, sussering words below the low volume of the tv show. “It’s sort of a gift for everyone, I think. Making us all family.”

Victor squeezes his eyes shut. He want to say _yes_. “I want us to be family.”

Yuuri stills ever so slightly, noticeable because of the closeness. He doesn’t say anything, just buries his face in the back of Victor’s neck. He’s shorter, slowly becoming smaller than Victor as Victor seems to keep getting bigger and broader; it’s easy to turn them around and curl over Yuuri, wrap him up. How nervous he must be, to propose. How brave. Victor coos senselessly and kisses his face, winding his way to Yuuri’s lips.

“Vicchan,” he sighs, undoing Victor’s bun, bringing Victor’s hair to his lips to kiss, like it’s precious. “Vitya. Puppy. So good. So glad…that’ you’re here…that you’re mine.”

Victor whines, all the air leaving him, hips coming down at Yuuri’s to rub them together, sliding his cock against Yuuri’s stomach. Yuuri slips a finger underneath the collar, finding the loop of the heart to keep Victor drawn down against him, hold him in place to kiss. As if Victor planned to be anywhere else but here kissing him. So intent on kissing Yuuri, on sliding his tongue into Yuuri’s mouth and letting Yuuri suck on it – feeling pulled inside out with so little effort, like Victor’s ready to plunge out of his own skin, the knots of his muscles unbecoming -- that when Victor does pull back just to look between their bodies, watch his cock and Yuuri’s cock glide against each other, it’s a surprise when Yuuri, finger still curled around the metal heart, tugs.

The chains press into the back of Victor’s neck, heavy points of pressure as Yuuri drags Victor’s mouth back to his. He’s grinning into Victor’s mouth

“I like this,” Yuuri hums. He tugs again, for emphasis.

“Me too,” Victor groans. He bites Yuuri’s lip and holds his teeth down, testing. Yuuri pulls on the collar again, a small prod of direction. A command. Victor releases the delicate prey of Yuuri’s mouth and eases back, eyes gleaming. Yuuri’s lips are puffed and shining.

 “Me too, Yuuri.” He sits back, ass on Yuuri’s dick, wiggling until it wedges between his cheeks. Yuuri grunts and pushes up, hips lifting Victor into the air like a raised dias. He basks in the glory of his mount, balancing himself on Yuuri’s thick thighs. Yuuri shifts his feet under and liftings up further, showing off with a smile, as he pushes up on his elbows too. Victor pulls is feet up and crosses his legs, sitting on Yuuri primly. He applauds until Yuuri, bouncing them together once, finally quakes and tips Victor over onto the bed and tackles him with a laugh. Victor has no chance to recover before Yuuri manages to gather his wrists into his hand, clutching hard, and drags his arms above his head, stretching him out. Victor’s only too glad for the restraint. He preens, arching his back, baring his collared neck proudly while Yuuri drinks his fill with looking.

A hand on his dick has Victor twisting, fucking into Yuuri’s grip.

“God,” Yuuri breathes raggedly, jerking Victor in a loose web of fingers, letting Victor push into his palm. “I want to watch you…all night.” Yuuri swallows heavily, and the sight of Yuuri’s dark eyes fixed to consume him, his jutting arousal a delicious taunt, makes Victor moan with want.

“Please,” Victor begs, arching again when Yuuri sinks to kiss and suck on his nipples, the hand on his cock drifting up to rub his stomach and scratch at his ticklish sides. “Fu-ck. Yuuri. You can – yeah. Don’t stop touching me, please.” Victor hooks a leg around his waist, trying to grind up into his stomach. “Solnyshka, you can look forever. Touch forever.”

“I’m going to,” Yuuri growls, hot mouth on his neck now, biting above the leather, kissing under his jaw. His rubs his tongue hard into Victor’s pulse point, massaging his neck, nips his earlobe. “Vicchan. _Puppy_. Puppy, can we try something?”

 _“Yes.”_ Victor bumps his nose into Yuuri’s temple and blows a sharp whistle of air into his ear, making Yuuri jump and sit back, finally breaking his hold on Victor’s wrist to rub the side of his head. Victor honks and sits up to hug him and kiss him better. “Oh my god, sorry. What? What?” He rubs into Yuuri’s stomach, helped along by Yuuri pulling him to straddle his thigh. Much better.

Yuuri’s already sweaty and breathing hard, holding Victor close. Victor relaxes against him despite the rhythmic motion of his hips, keeping him on edge. He loves this, winding up with Yuuri, how sexy Yuuri becomes with Victor’s body in his hands. It’s like he’s breaking Yuuri free of some invisible restraint. Yuuri in motion is undeniable and arresting; Yuuri when he dances, when he laughs, when he wants to make love. All this is Victor’s now. His.

“Okay,” Yuuri finally says. His hands don’t falter in rubbing Victor’s back and up into his hair to scatch his scalp and pull intermittently on his hair, little suggestions of pain and dominance, exactly how Victor likes. “First, before I -- is there anything that _you_ want to do?”

“Come?” Victor volunteers immediately. “I would enjoy coming.”

Yuuri snorts into his neck unattractively. Victor pats his head. There there.

“You’ll come,” Yuuri promises, matter of fact. He kisses beneath Victor’s ear and whispers, “Do you care how you’ll come for me?”

Now that’s the million dollar question. Victor hums thoughtfully, draping himself over Yuuri. Hands, mouth, ass, thighs, feet. There’s so many options. Or does Yuuri not mean the method but the…practice? Fuck, Victor doesn’t know. That’s too much to think about. All he knows is that he wants Yuuri to look at him hungrily again, prideful. To be touched endlessly. Praised. He wants Yuuri to want and worship him and to go mad for him, to reveal himself to Victor, the capabilities of his love. Yuuri has a magnetic eroticism inside him, he has a powerfulness that Victor, darkly delighted, wants to be possessed by, owned by.

Victor rubs his face into Yuuri’s neck, butting under his chin. “Let me be good for you… I want to be a good puppy.” Victor settles on this answer. Yuuri hums, his throat vibrating low and assenting next to Victor’s ear. “Tell me I’m pretty? Pet me and tell me I’m yours?" He finds Yuuri's hand and brings it up, kissing his palm before wrapping Yuuri's fingers around his throat, around the collar. Yuuri squeezes experimentally; it's enough to make Victor groan, eyes falling shut and head tipping back. His hair brushes the top of his ass, ticklish, brushing across the sweat gathering at the base of his spine.

"Make me yours.”

Very softly, Yuuri says; “I thought you’d say that.”

 

* * *

 

Hiroko knocks very _very_ timidly on the door the next morning, bright and early. Victor’s crawling his way out of bed, feeling like a fresh born lamb. He still has to do morning training. Yuuri’s supposed to drive him to the rink before going on a mysterious mission related to Victor’s surprise. Victor can’t imagine what it is, is trying not to spoil his own surprise.

“Yuu-chan? Vic-chan?” Hiroko whispers. Victor eases the door open, blinking out from the crack. He has his silky robe on and nothing else and he feels very…open and indecent.

“Ohayo, okaa-san,” Victor greets. He opens the door when she lifts up a tray of breakfast items and a pot of tea. He takes it from her quickly, looking around Mari’s old room for a flat surface. He pushes some pens off the banged up desk and slides the tray on, wincing at the scrape of noise and Yuuri’s sleepy annoyed grunt. 

Hiroko abruptly turns away, apologizing and laughing as she totters off. Victor looks over his shoulder. The covers off Yuuri and his hairy naked buttocks is sticking out. Victor locks the door after Hiroko and tip-toes back to bed, crouching over Yuuri and biting one of his cheeks.

“Don’t start,” Yuuri slurs, “what you can’t finish.”

“I think I’m in better shape than you, my love.” Victor slides on top of him, wincing as he spreads his legs over Yuuri’s hips. He wants badly to skip training but he can’t afford it. The dull ache will fade to the background once every other part of his body is worked over.

Yuuri yawns and stuffs his face into the pillow. “No. Liar. Bullshit. Shit-liar. Dirty bullshit liar.”

“Such a foul mouth, Yuuri.” Victor slides back so he’s on the back of Yuuri’s thighs and pats on his butt, _pap pap pap_. His ass has, in Victor’s professional ass opinion, improved with the increase of defined muscle mass. It’s tightened up, still two big bubbles to play with, but it has a new resilience that makes squeezing and playing with it all the more thrilling. He runs a finger down Yuuri’s crack contemplatively. “I’ll put my dick in your mouth if it’s so dirty.”

“Ha,” Yuuri snorts. He rolls over beneath Victor and stretches, groping on the bedside for his glass. Victor helps him and pokes them up his nose, stroking down the bridge. “I want to eat food right now, not dick.”

“Not even my dick?”

“Not even your dick.”

“And you say you love me.”

 

Victor leaves the collar in the room and Yuuri drops him, Phichit, and Phichit’s sister off at the rink. Phichit films him and takes some photos and falls on his butt a lot alongside his sister. They make slow, precarious laps around the rink in borrowed skates from the patient, tired manager asked to unlock the rink early just for Victor. It’s only a few hours; the Chulanont siblings leave him when they’ve grown tired and trek into town, bundled up in many many layers. Victor runs back to the onsen as his cool down, small gear bag strapped tight across his back.

Mari’s truck is back, meaning Yuuri has returned.

“Vic-chan. Yuuri says to wash up right away,” Toshiya calls to him. They’re hosting guests again, although only a few. Victor obeys because for all he knows, he won’t be able to soak in the spring if he waits and he really really wants to soak as often as possible.

He’s scrubbed down and stepping out into the cold air of the spring when a familiar blond head materializes through the steam.

“Chris?”

“Bon anniversaire, Victor! Je suis ton cadeau ! » Chris stands up and wades to the edge of the spring, arms outstretched. He has a plastic hairclip shaped like a bow in his hair. What an asshole.

“Uhm,” Yuuri appears, squinting. “Hi? Sorry. Uhm. Chris is – part of it.”

Chris guides a dazed Victor into the water, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Yuuri invited me to join you for the last bit of your vacation. Because you did not come to Puerto Rico after the skate with me.” Chris kisses Victor’s cheeks. He knows why Victor didn’t come. Victor and Yuuri look away from each other.

“Hi,” Victor finally greets, kissing Chris on the cheek. He embraces his friend, mutual nudity disregarded. They’ve had sex. It’s all love. Except Yuuri clears his throat and points to the general public reality of the spring, the two other old men staring at them. They’re not really supposed to touch. Chris does not get this and keeps a hand on both his and Yuuri’s shoulders, grinning. “Wow, hi! Yuuri picked you up?”

“Yes. We had a fantastic road trip back from the airport. Hasetsu is _adorable._ ” He drapes his arms over Yuuri, hugging him with new intimacy. Yuuri flinches, as he does nearly anyone touches him, but he only looks at Chris with a sidelong acceptance. “Yuuri and I bonded.”

Victor would normally care more that Yuuri, who is naked, is being touched by Chris, who is not of pure intentions, but his head’s buzzing, trying to understand. The Chulanonts are here, because Yuuri considers them family…and now Chris, who Yuuri knows Victor basically considers family (in a vaguely incestuous way…)…so he brought Chris so that Victor had his own special family.

“Thank you, Yuuri! What a lovely surprise.” He squeezes Yuuri’s hand, once more overcome, but his eyes flick to Chris with distracted interest. Chris is staring back with equal intensity. Yuuri looks between them, brow furrowed.

“I’ll, uhm, leave you two…I need to do some, stuff. Things and stuff.”

Yuuri dismisses himself with one backwards glance. Chris makes a show of watching him leave before he grips Victor’s arm and pulls him down into a sit in the water. His friend holds him still, reading Victor’s face instantly.

“First: he is darling. Second: I’m never leaving this spring—“ Victor nods along rapidly, of course, of course, “third: you should marry him and fourth,” Chris takes a breath and holds out a staying hand, fingers on Victor’s mouth preemptively. “He is not asking you to marry him.”

Considering that Victor only thought Yuuri was going to propose to him for a handful of days, it shouldn’t shatter him to be told otherwise. But it does.

“What?” Victor demands, taking hold of Chris’s wrist. “He told you?”

“Yes. The surprise is good. You will be happy, Victor. He’s very in love with you. But it’s not a marriage proposal. Well --,” and Chris should not be indecisive or second-guessing his explanations now after dropping a shock like that. “Actually. I don’t know.”

 _“Christophe,”_ Victor hisses. _“What do you mean you don’t know?”_

Chris waves away the threat of his voice, sinking lower into the water. He slings his arm around Victor’s shoulder again. “It is not a proposal but it is very clear that he wants to marry you. I think this is better. Trust me, cheri, you will like this. _I_ like it. I’m touched to be included.”

“What is it?” Victor asks, trying not to mope. His fantasies are vanishing like the steam, fading up into nothingness.

“I cannot spoil the surprise. That’d be very rude. It’s in a few hours. Let’s enjoy this. Tell me about your vacation. The collar is to die for. I love it. So sexy. What’s good to eat here?” And leave it to a man who, Swiss though he may be, has spent too much time in France to not be intent on food five seconds into a conversation.

Victor pulls himself together to appreciate the gesture of Yuuri bringing Chris here.

It doesn’t matter if Yuuri doesn’t propose today. Chris is right. Everything about them suggests that they’re looking towards a future together. This is better. Victor can work with this. This simply means that Victor now has the opportunity to ask Yuuri to spend the rest of their lives together, all things willing. And he does love to surprise Yuuri.

 

Hiroko helps him with the kimono. Victor repeats after Hiroko each step to assembling the kimono, but he strongly suspects that he won’t be able to wear it again without her help, unless Yuuri knows how to dress it; Victor isn’t so sure, considering Yuuri is with his father apparently behing helped into his own _montsuki._

Mari and MInako come in to see the final stages of assemblage. To Victor’s surprise, they’re wearing the same style as him but different than Hiroko’s. The sleeves on all three of their kimono’s are long, trailing almost to thefloor, covering their hands.

“Is yours different because you are a mother?” Victor asks, lifting his arm to admire the fabric. He’s still not sure what’s happening, but he is positive he will fall in love with Yuuri again on sight.

“Because I’m married.” Hiroko reaches over to pat her daughter on the cheek. “Unlike this child, and you. Even Minako-sempai.”

“I married dance,” Minako shrugs. She looks younger, dressed like this. Mari is split between irritation at the slight dig from her mother and from the pleasure of knowing she looks beautiful.

“If I marry,” Victor asks casually, “can I have this altered?”

Mari smirks at him. “Planning ahead?”

Victor smiles.

The ladies leave him when Yuuri comes knocking, speaking soft Japanese that Victor can’t hear well enough to begin to parse. Victor waits, anticipation building in his chest, eyes waiting to see the first look of delight on Yuuri’s face. It feels like the crisp moment before he goes onto the ice, before the crowd washes over him and the lights wash his world in glaring ice.

“Vitya? _Móžno vojtí?”_

 _“Da_.”

Yuuri slides back the _shoji_ , stepping inside and shutting it behind him promptly. Victor takes him in slowly. Where Victor is in white, Yuuri is in a dark navy blue. The same pale blue thread traces his own ocean pattern, his same string of stars. They’re composite opposites, one image flipped in reverse. Yuuri’s hair is slicked back and his glasses off, giving Victor an absolute and unobstructed view of his handsome face, his high cheeks and pouting mouth that parts at the sight of Victor, the blush that crawls across his face.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. His hand lingers on the door, like he’s paralyzed in the motion of coming and going, lost in transit. “Oh.”

Victor spreads his arms for a hug that finally triggers Yuuri to step into him. “Your face says it all,” Victor teases. He thinks if he doesn’t speak that he never will again. Yuuri might not either. Victor will break the silence for them both. Yuuri nods minutely, reaching up to brush Victor’s hair over his shoulder, gathering it and bringing it to lay long over one side.

“You look like magic,” Yuuri whispers, stroking Victor’s hair. “Beyond…beauty.” Yuuri’s face flickers through awe at the sight, despair at not having the words, and finally a quiet smile as he presses a hand to Victor’s cheek, kissing him chastely on the lips.

“You are with me in that beyond, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs. He presses his hand to Yuuri’s chest, stroking the fine fabric that matches his own. “I won’t be able to look away with you dressed like this. You enchant me with your own magic.”

Yuuri looks down, blush containing up to his ears.

“Yuuri! You look _so_ good, Yuuri, my beautiful love,” Victor cheers more loudly, taking him and squeezing him into another hug. “I want to take pictures of us so the whole world can see you.”

“That’s kind of the idea,” Yuuri wheezes from the embrace. Victor eases up, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder and making a thoughtful sound. The kimono is rather restrictive; is Yuuri’s own garb the same?

“Are we taking pictures?”

“Uh – yeah. Yeah. I, well, we, my family, have this old photo. You’ve seen it,” Yuuri explains in a quickened voice. “The one in the hall. The hall past the bedrooms? It’s old, and, I thought we could all have a new one taken. This new family of people we....people we love. Yuuko and Takeshi are coming too with their parents. It’s,” Yuuri huffs, “for everyone. But you are always saying that you love Hasetsu and my family and everyone and we’ll go to Hasetsu tower, the ninja house, you know? And—”

Victor cuts him off with a firm kiss. “It’s perfect,” he says against Yuuri’s lips. “A brilliant idea, Yuuri. A perfect gift for us all to share.”

Chris was right. Victor does love it. It is becoming family.

“Yeah?” Yuuri asks hopefully, looking up at him with shining eyes.

“Of course! I will treasure it forever. We must get the largest print possible and have it framed for the bedroom – no, the living room. We need a bigger apartment, I think. Ah, perfect,” Victor kisses him again, fast, like a punctuation mark. Yuuri blinks through it. “I’m glad we’re getting professional photography. I don’t think we’ve ever been so well dressed at the same time.”

Yuuri swallows, looking at Victor’s kimono with the same intensity he would if Victor were naked.

“I hesitated, advising my mother to ask for the _furisode_ style. I didn’t want to presume, but I thought you’d appreciate the aesthetic.”

“Oh yes,” Victor says easily. “You do know my preferences. But don’t think Mama didn’t tell me what this,” Victor shakes his arms, making the fabric of his sleeves flutter, “means.”

Actually, Victor doesn’t really know because Hiroko hadn’t gone so far as to tell him that when a man wore one, it very much indicated that he was another man’s lover. It seemed to bold a statement that Yuuri would make.

Yuuri looks at his feet. “We can have it altered,” he mumbles, reaching up to correct glasses that aren’t there, fingers touching the space between his eyebrows. Victor takes his hand away from his face and laces their fingers together.

“After we’re married,” he says with a wink. Yuuri’s eyebrows go up, followed by his eyes finding Victor’s. Victor kisses the knuckle of his ring finger, maintaining eye contact. “That’s a promise,” he says with a wink.

“Ah,” Yuuri sounds, nodding once. He hasn’t stopped blushing since he walked into this room. “That’s –,” he struggles for words once more, so Victor kisses his knuckle again and holds his lips to the skin, brushing them back and forth gently. After a minute, the tension overtaking Yuuri’s shoulder eases, and he turns Victor’s hand and kisses his knuckle in return. “A promise.”

 

Yu-topia now has a massive photo of a mishmashed happy family clustered and posed on the roof of Hasetsu’s tower. So does Victor and Yuuri’s apartment. Chris has a nice picture of him and Victor looking too good for the world, as do Phichit and Yuuri. Yuuko and Takeshi went ahead and got small family photo as well. Every left the day with memories for their hearts, their walls, and their wallets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**A few weeks later:**

 

 

[Yuuri in a crisp white Adida’s tracksuit and white sweatband around his forehead, a whistle around his neck. Victor beside him, shirtless, black track jacket unzipped completely to show his chiseled physique off, low-slung black workout pants letting out a peekaboo of hips and silvery hair. He runs his hands enticingly up and down his body. Mari to Yuuri’s other side, arms crossed, face impassive, in a slightly baggie pink track suit that is either her brother’s or Victor’s.

A Phichit Chulanont Production.

Yuuri is pink, fighting giggles (debatably intoxicated) and working to keep his stern, earnest face as he lipsyncs: “You just popped in the Kanye West Get Right for the Summer Workout Tape…”]

 

 

**The gang gets internet famous (again). Everything you need to know about the New-New Workout Plan**

Victor Nikiforov can break all the skating records he wants, but his greatest gift to mankind will be giving us his boyfriend. It’s hard to believe Yuuri Katsuki wasn’t a household meme less than a year ago. Yuuri’s been on my radar for months now, from his cute af face (and body) on Niki’s IG to when he started his own youtube channel and came out with weekly dance routines that honestly have been saving my life at the club.

Public FigurePhotographer, Videographer, Website Designer, Lifestyle Launcher, _Genius_ , Phichit Chulanont from Thailand, is the cameraman and editor for this blessed video. It takes place in Yuuri’s hometown, if the inclusion of his parents and sister are any indication, in the newly identified Hasetsu, Japan. Officially, it was filmed after Christmas, when Nikiforov finished with gold at the Russian Nationals before vacationing with his boyfriend, joined by Chulanont’s family at the Katsuki homestead.  
  
BTW: It’s a hot springs. You can go there. And stay. And be that much closer to an angel. It’s already apparently the new celebrity watering hole.

As far as professionalism goes, the video, while sexy, certainly reveals a lot of Yuuri’s ability to choreograph and his physical prowess. Chulanont released a statement detailing the production of the video. The many shots of Victor working out are genuine footage captured of the skater’s daily routine. Those sneak peeks of Victor’s sexy body are making crops flourish across the lands. We’ve yet to see Yuuri pole dancing before this either, but apparently the dancer has this skillset in his endless repartee as well. I, for one, appreciate Yuuri’s (and Victor’s too) apparent fluidity in expression… _read more_

 

 

[Interview style video of Chris looking sauced and overdone, nipples rock hard and poking through a tank top, speaking with a heavy French accent. “I was living in fraHnce, that’s where I’m from…im zorry iz hard sometimez for me to speaky ze english…]

**203,880 views**

**Christophe-gc** watch my acting debut as FiFi Lebuoff in Phichit and Yuuri’s (and I GUESS Victor’s) video!

 

The Chulanont parents and the Katsuki parents didn’t know who Kanye West was when their children started scrambling around the onsen, putting on worrisome costumes and running away with Phichit’s expensive camera, but when they were asked to make guest appearances, they recited lines in heavily accented English or smiled in the background. Toshiya and Minako drank alongside the kids and joined in enthusiastically. Hiroko and Toshiya expect nothing off it; they gave Vic-chan and Phi-chan kisses on their cheeks and sent them away back to their homes only to, seemingly overnight, become overrun with American celebrities.

 

Hasetsu was on the mother fucking map.

 

 

“So that was Anthony Bourdain’s agent. Bourdain wants to eat my mom’s cooking,” Yuuri says when he hangs up his phone. It’s been blowing up for days.

Victor looks up from his laptop, wincing as he turns the screen around. “Kim K is going to rent you out.”

 

Yuuri turns off his phone and crawls into Victor’s lap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also when i was in phase 3 of rewriting this chapter i started writing them making a kanye west video and going viral so...


	5. Alexi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri undertakes a dance competition with a partner that wants more from him. Victor is not amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! first: i love you! every comment and kudo means the world to me. i know that you are all loyal readers of this AU and it's amazing! everyone seems really connected to this story and that, as the writer, is awesome to see. i worked hard on this and hope it's a good read.
> 
> it's yuuri's pov. i feel like my victor is better than my yuuri? i tried to give yuuri some more spotlight because i love him but i find him hard to write sometimes >.< but he's the best.
> 
> i changed the title of the fic and tweaked the summary condition of the 5+1. so far it's all been Yuuri calling Victor Puppy so in the last chapter, we'll get to see Victor calling himself Yuuri's puppy to other people (not that he hasn't done that before...that dork.)
> 
> quick notes:1) from what i read, kissing as greeting is very common in russia. Chris and victor kiss-greet and chris and yuuri kiss greet too. 2)there's possessive behavior and jealousy but its actually p healthy. i really think victor is a jealous/possessive person (chihoko and his behavior in the anime certainly testifies to it.) he handles it healthfully in this because he works hard in therapy. i think both feelings are normal and not bad feelings as long as the behavior that follows isn't bad ya dig? 
> 
> there's an extended sex scene that can be skipped if ur not feeling it. just emotion stuff but it's all good. youll know when it comes (after the texts.)
> 
>  
> 
> this got out of hand as usual. i have an entire dance routine and skate routine in my head for the two songs in this chapter and are the entire motivation for this chapter and lowkey what started this whole plotbunny sequel. 
> 
> if ur v sensitive to infidelity stuff, check end notes for spoilers.
> 
> also no shade at the kardashians. this is completely neutral. yikes @ writing public figures amiright  
> BIBI is a made up popstar idunno i dont worldbuild yall.
> 
> i tried my best with everything! so please enjoy!

* * *

 

Hotel rooms possess a liminal quality of forgetting for Yuuri. He’s never stayed in a place fancy enough to be marketed highly nor terrible enough to be memorable. It’s always patterned carpet and blank white bedspreads, windows with ugly shades that clatter and a series of perpetually too-cold air conditioners. When he first started traveling, he’d been shaken with nerves at the check in, paranoid that his reservation hadn’t gone through, that the room would have bed bugs, that the cleaning worker would waltz in on him pooping or naked. Then, when none of those things happened, he started to enjoy the disposable emptiness of hotels. He ate bagels and watermelon across the world, drank tacky-sweet juice and bland coffee that looked the same across chains. He favored the international brands, racked up membership points. He stepped through automatic doors and put his luggage down and came back to tucked-neat emptiness.

Then he got used to staying in rooms with Victor. The freshly cleaned bed became an excuse to make it dirty; room service breakfast became micro-nutrients and excuses to kiss crumbs off lips. Shower caps were suddenly always in demand to keep Victor’s long hair, saturated with deep conditioner, off his shoulders while they ran through stretches together. Hotels stopped being empty. Yuuri stopped forgetting where he was each morning because he was with Victor and that’s its own kind of home. Clean sheets smelled like Victor’s citrus cologne and the sweat from his groin.

The hotel in Hollywood is achingly empty. Yuuri’s barely inside it though. He doesn’t like Hollywood. It’s eerily bright even in winter. He has to wear his contacts everyday so he can wear sunglasses. He’s teaching, or attempting to, teach a few club-style dance steps to the Kardashians and a gaggle of their friends. They keep feeding him salads of plain spinach with plain chicken. He drinks all of the coconut water that’s set in the cooler in the mock-studio. He’s never been more hydrated and underwhelmed in his life.

“I don’t think I want to be here,” he tells Victor on the fourth day. The time difference is murder. Victor’s ten hours ahead. The Earth is weird. Time zones are so weird. “Time zones are weird,” he tacks on, trying to wash out his own regrets.

“They are _so_ weird,” Victor agrees, a bright chirp in Yuuri’s wear. “You are not so far, yes, an ocean, but the Earth is weird. Time is not real.”

“It’s not real. It’s relative.”

“Yes, yes. We are all at the same time, everything is right now. Bah,” Victor snorts and sounds eerily like Yakov. “It was the sailors who did this.”

Yuuri hums. Sailors. Yeah. He has no idea what the hell that’s supposed to mean. Victor doesn’t let him escape. He coos, “Yuuri ~ what are you meaning you are not wanting to be there, hmm?”

Yuuri flops onto the comfortable but empty hotel bed. “I, uhm --- I don’t know.”

“I think you do~.”

It’s morning with Victor. He’s probably standing by the water fountain at the gym to take this illicit call.

“I don’t like it here. Uhm.” Yuuri picks a thread off the comforter. “Teaching like this.”

“To these people? Are they still saying your name wrong?”

“No. Not anymore. It’s not them; they’re fine. They’re not mean. It’s more like…I don’t want to teach people who aren’t really dancers. I guess. Does that sound bad? I sound mean. But it…feels, I don’t know. Sorry. I’m being dumb.”

“Yuuri,” Victor chides, somehow comforting and wise and that’s not fair. Yuuri’s the older one. “You are never dumb. You are always telling me not to call myself stupid; do not make me turn those words on you.”

“Sorry, you’re right. Sorry.” Yuuri winces, face scrunching. Victor can’t see him catch himself. “Sorry,” he says again. Victor hums into the phone, acknowledgement, soothing again. Yuuri bites his lip hard.

“What do you want to be teaching? Do you still like teaching? It’s not that, is it?”

“No,” Yuuri says readily enough. “It’s not that. It’s, uhm –“ There’s a noise on Victor’s end of the line, a grumpy noise. Victor replies with saccharine sweetness. “Do you need to go?”

“No,” Victor answers with firm immediacy. “I am listening to you. Please continue, my Yuuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t, at first, but Victor waits him out. Victor is so patient with him sometimes, it amazes Yuuri still even after almost a year. For the most part, they’re good about knowing when to press each other and when to sit back and wait because now they _can_ wait knowing that the other will eventually come to them. They still have fuck-ups in them but yeah, they do better than good.

“I want my work to be seen,” Yuuri sighs. He adjusts the phone in his grip, staring intently out the window at too many lights. “I want to be a part of a production, to put on a real performance. Either be the one dancing or, well, choreograph and teach to dancers who are really performing. It’s fun, for only a little, teaching to someone who wants to learn a small something but doing this…I feel past it. Which…is not so good for me to say if I wanted to open a dance studio of my own,” Yuuri finishes with a groan. Fuck. What now? He’s too snooty to teach beginners’ dance; Minako-sensei taught him when he was a baby; she has what it takes to really teach.

“Is that bad?” Victor asks, sounding puzzled. “It sounds like you are ambitious and want to create beautiful dance for many people. I love to skate and want everyone to enjoy it but that does not mean that I want to be responsible for the task of teaching basics. How frustrating it must be for you, when you are capable of dancing wonderfully yourself and doing more.”

“So I don’t sound like an asshole?”

“Not to me!”

There’s another grumpy noise on Victor’s line, a distinct growl of Russian.

_“Nyet, nyet, nyet! Yakov!”_

The phone beeps. Yuuri pulls it away from his ear to see the call ended. When he doesn’t get an immediate text back, he assumes Yakov’s confiscated it from Victor and gets ready for bed. Not an asshole. He’s not an asshole. Victor’s right. It’s okay. It’s okay.

 

It’s a relief to go home to Russia. His follower count on IG jumped a few thousand especially after the selfies Kim K and Kendall took with him and posted on their IGs. His youtube subscriptions are up. He released a small part of the steps he taught to the girls. It felt cheap and obnoxious though. He disabled the comments on that video and ignored all his feeds. On his layover, he had to turn off his phone and stuff it into the bottom of his carryon to keep from deleting _everything_.

Victor had texted him frantically when he’d put the video up; his hair was short again. He’d gotten talked into having a stylist give him a makeover. The new cut suited him but he regretted it now, reaching for hair that wasn’t there, snapping his elastic on his wrist that now served no point. He spent a year growing it and a moment of weakness undid that. It created a glossy coif when styled but now Yuuri had it crammed under a hat, a fluffy squirrels’ nest of black.

Victor keeps a hand on his knee for most of the drive back to the apartment. It’s both comforting and not considering two hands on the wheel could have been used more often. They survive.

“What can I do for you, my love,” Victor offers when they’re back home. Yuuri hugs him harder, face buried in Victor’s sweater. They’ve been hugging inside the doorway for five minutes, Victor happily indulging him. He’s got his nose buried in Yuuri’s hair, lips pursing into little kisses every few seconds.

“Nothing. Let me die,” Yuuri grumbles. “Pretend you never knew me. I’m running away.”

Victor gasps and squeezes him. “Noooo. No no, I will not allow this. You will stay.”

“No. I’m going to live in a cave and learn _butoh_. Give Phichit all of my video games.”

“So dramatic,” Victor tsks. Yuuri snorts; like he’s one to talk. “Instead of this, let me feed you, yes? You will feel better fed. I made parsnip zoodles. You will only mostly notice that it is not a real noodle.”

“God,” Yuuri sighs. He parts enough from Victor for Makkachin to finally wedge between them, stomping on both their feet and whining. Yuuri slumps down to the floor, back against the door, and accepts her kisses. “You’re the best, Vicchan.”

“I know!” Victor twirls away, his hair still long and lovely. “I missed you so much, Yuuri. It was terrible. So cold and lonely without you. My own private ice age--”

“And he calls _me_ dramatic,” Yuuri conspires to Makkachin, squishing her face.

“—I am to use to having a man in my bed. My feet were so cold without your thighs, Yuuri.”

Victor must have meant it because he’s intent on spoiling Yuuri rotten with cuddles all day and the next. Yuuri has off from the studio and he sits at practice after returning from the gym with the rest of them. He watches all of the skaters zoom around and work hard. Victor slides into a perfect split at one point from his spread eagle, trying to flirt, but gets stuck and has to have Georgi help him out of it. Yuuri and Mila compare camera angles of their hastily recorded footage and send it off to assorted friends and enemies. But after that little tease, Victor’s back to a tight-jawed relentless push at the ice. Yuuri watches him slip into his zone, and then he has eyes and ears for no one, only existing between blades and gravity.

Victor’s said it before, that if circumstance had not brought them together, he would never have known to look for another person in his life. Yuuri watches him and sees this. Victor’s all teeth, all blood, all bite for the chase of victory. He crushed the Grand Prix and Russian Nationals; he’ll crush Worlds.

 

They’re home again, blissfully domestic, when there’s a knock on the door.

“Don’t answer,” Yuuri whispers. He’s in pajamas and “Finding Nemo” is queued up on his laptop.

“It could be Nonna asking one of us to fix the sink again,” Victor teases, getting off the couch despite Yuuri’s whine.

“If you go over, you’ll be trapped for an hour forced fed shortbread and tea,” Yuuri warns. He makes a failed attempt to trip Victor and pull him back on the couch, but Victor’s agile and leaps away, to the door in an instant, exciting Makka who scrambles off the end of the couch after him with her tail wagging.

It’s not their devious little old lady neighbor. It’s Alexi, from the studio, one of Yuuri’s favorite dancers and sometimes team-mate when they all get together for a game night. 

_“Zdravstvui.  Is Yuuri in?”_

_“Da,_ ” Victor answers warily.

Yuuri brushes his shirt off for any potential crumbs and gets off the couch, going to the door that Victor has mostly shut on his student.

“Alexi, hello,” Yuuri greets kindly, confused and alarmed but not unhappy. He didn’t confuse the dates right? He wasn’t supposed to be in the studio, was he? Anna would have called him if so. She hasn’t even texted aside to say a brief welcome back once he reported that he’d landed safely.

Alexi is Victor’s age. He’s a good looking man, only a little taller than Yuuri, dark hair curling around his ears, huge dark brows and vividly green that give him an expressive face. He lights up when Yuuri appears and offers forward a small packet of nice coffee from a café in town.

“Yuuri! How I was missing you, _krasavets.”_ Alexi embraces Yuuri readily with one arm, kissing him briefly. Yuuri blinks his way through the enthusiastic greeting. Alexi tends to be very energetic. “I could not wait for you to return to the studio. I had to speak with you now.”

Victor’s still blocking most of the doorway, door clenched in his hand. The air crackles around him. “About?”

Alexi ignores him, holding Yuuri’s free hand. “An amazing opportunity has appeared. A dance competition. Yuuri, it must be you. I can only do this with you. Please, do me this favor, yes, Yuuri? For me?” Alexi holds up Yuuri’s hand like he means to kiss it.

Victor hipchecks the door open, so hard that the knob bangs against the wall. Yuuri flinches, mind conjuring the scuff that it must have made. “Let us discuss inside. I will make the coffee.”

Yuuri smiles and steps back into the apartment to make room. Victor cuts between him and Alexi, bracing a hand on the small of Yuuri’s back.

In short order, Yuuri forgets all about “Finding Nemo”.

 

The dance competition is a bit of a talent search for dancers and choreographers for a music video for some Russian pop star BIBI. Performers are to create a routine for an existing song; there’s no limit to how many performers can be in any one routine. Winning dancers and their respective choreographers will be invited to dance in and choreograph, respectively, the new music video for a single the star has yet to release. The competition will be held in a large performing arts theatre with free admission. There’s a cash prize to ice the cake.

He and Victor aren’t hurting by any means, not at all. Especially considering Victor took gold at the Grand Prix Final despite his rocky start and scored a healthy sponsorship But Victor’s still a rising star in his sport, his winning streak just begun. Until the Olympics, until his first international gold, a bit unexpected but no less spectacular, Victor had still been scraping by as a skater. He made it through to competition by the skin of his teeth, financially; too many of his sponsors paid him in material goods or just the flight and room. The apartment they shared reflected that; modest, the kitchen bleeding into the living room, the only bathroom tacked onto the bedroom. Yuuri’s had been much larger in Japan, a working professional’s home. Yuuri’s dance job paid less than his magazine job but his living expenses had gone down by moving in with Victor. He hadn’t helped himself by buying so many flights in an extravagant Christmas-birthday fusion present; he didn’t regret it in the least. Especially not when it lead to the Kim-K stint, the money from that going into a separate growth account that Yuuri privately considered the wedding fund.

Victor had confessed, the day that they hung the huge print (and it really was too large for their apartment) that he’d thought Yuuri was going to propose. He’d laughed and made fun of himself for being so silly in suspecting something dramatic like that from Yuuri, and made a teasing threat that now they will have to race each other to be the one to make the proposal. Yuuri had laughed then but stayed awake all night, mind spinning. Victor found him red-eyed sleepless at the kitchen table at 5am doing calculations and trying to diversify his stock portfolio.

So this? Yeah, Yuuri’s into it. It’s not the full ballet production that Yuuri might dream of, but it actually sounds fun. Victor smiles encouragingly when Yuuri glances his way during Alexi’s babbling explanation. The competition is shortly before the World Championship, which means they won’t miss each other’s performances, which makes saying yes pretty easy. Yuuri figures, why not? Nothing can go wrong. And Alexi wants him to choreograph. He does a pretty good job of buttering Yuuri up.

“So you agree? Yes? Perfect. Perfect, Yuuri, I am so grateful.” Alexi leans across the table to squeeze Yuuri’s arm. “I could not think of a more brilliant mind for this. I want you to dance it with me. I have the vision, Yuuri, but you will make it reality. You will make us victorious.”

Yuuri flushes at Alexi’s intensity. Victor rubs his thigh under the table. “I-I’ll try my best, Alexi. I can’t make promises. We probably won’t win.”

“Nonsense,” Victor dismisses before Alexi can. “This is perfect for you.”

“Yes. You are perfect for it, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s blush climbs higher. He’s trapped in the middle of two men who are both intent on stroking his limbs and telling him he’s amazing while studiously ignoring the other. What a terrible not-fantasy. It’s something Phichit would like. Or Chris. Oh god. It’s something they would do to him themselves. With Victor watching.

 

He meets Alexi in an empty dance room at the studio after all the classes have finished. Alexi is already there, in a split, on his phone. He waves Yuuri over almost immediately and gets to his feet, skipping to Yuuri halfway across the room and hugging him.

“Uhm.”

“Yuuri, I am again so thankful for you agreeing. Listen to the song I chose. I want sex, Yuuri. You can give me sex.” He struts away then, plugging his phone into a little portable speaker.

“Uhm,” Yuuri tries again.

“Close your eyes and listen. You may recognize. She is American.”

Ariana Grande’s “Dangerous Woman” plays out from the speakers. Yuuri covers a laugh with the back of his hand and closes his eyes. _Sex_. How trite, but then again, they’re aiming to be in a pop video. Might as well dance to pop. The song seems to go on forever; he’s heard it before but never listened too closely to the song or the album. He thought the latex bunny mask had been….cute? Kinky? He wasn’t sure. Ariana looked like a little girl to him but then again, this was all about owning her sexuality so he chose not to deliberate too long on the topic.

Alexi’s staring him down when Yuuri opens his eyes. He flinches, nose scrunching at the unrelenting eye contact. “U-uhm.”

“What did you think? Do you feel it? Did you think _sex_?”

“I uh – sure? It’s sexy. It’s about sex.”

Alexi pouts and pauses the music as the next song plays. He cocks his hips, body laid out beneath the tights and tank top. “You do not look aroused,” Alexi says coolly, disappointed.

“I don’t – uhm, - do you know what that word means?” Yuuri squeaks, flailing his hands. “Because—“

“Nothing; you give me nothing when listening to such a song. Yuuri, where is all that,” Alexi steps towards him, hands out and fingers curling in want at something in the air. His mouth is thin, tight, then he grunts. It’s a very suggestive grunt.

“That,” he grunts again, then comes to grab Yuuri’s wrists and pull them into each other until they’re breathing the same air. “We will listen again. I want to be literal. I want a dangerous woman and the boy – or man,” he cocks his head at a blushing Yuuri, delighted by the look on Yuuri’s face: it makes him feel like a cat with a mouse, finally allowed to play with this cute man, “a man, I want them to be raging through the sex. A rough sex. Yes? Yes.” He pats Yuuri’s shoulder in encouragement. “Close your eyes, Yuuri. Visualize.”

It’s a long night.

 

Victor sniffs when Yuuri tells him about how practice went. “He is not subtle. _Sex.”_ Victor says something mean and crude in Russia, so packed with idiom that all Yuuri hears is nonsense and disgust. Yuuri gives him the beady eye. Victor sticks his chin out. “No, I will not take it back. He is doing this to seduce you.”

“Oh, so it’s not because I’m a brilliant choreographer and dancer?”

“That is _not_ what I said,” Victor pouts. They’re in bed, and Victor turns over completely to face him. Yuuri pushes Victor’s hair over his shoulder, too soft by far. Victor’s lips twitch in a smile even as he goes on with his sour rant. “I am saying that he will use the opportunity of closeness to make advances. I did the same to you in Japan. Trust me, I know what he must feel to want you.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri flusters, embarrassed and stirred by the words. It’s hot to think about Victor’s desire for him, the desire that hasn’t waned after all these months. “He is not,” Yuuri argues. “You have a terrible jealousy streak.”

“What am I having to be jealous about? You are mine. He is the jealous one.” Victor sniffs again and throws an arm around Yuuri to snuggle them close. He kisses Yuuri’s neck, once for effect and once again because Yuuri sighs at the kiss. Then Victor is kissing him with motive. “I do not doubt you, your love for me or your skill at dance.”

“Now you’re sweet talking me,” Yuuri mumbles weakly, tilting his head back for Victor’s mouth to roam freely down his neck.

“No,” Victor defends. He rolls Yuuri onto his back and lets the covers fall off of them so he can kiss more of delicious skin. Yuuri has no complaints. “I am speaking truth. I pity him. Poor man does not get to have you,” Victor continues, voice dropping to a purr. He slides his broad hand down Yuuri’s taught stomach, index finger tracing the valley carved down between his abdomen muscles. “to love you as I do, to know your love.”

“Then—then you should be nice to him,” Yuuri whispers, hushed by the hungry look in Victor’s eyes. It’s a teasing glint that falls down into Victor’s teeth when they creep out from his smile.

“I will have nothing nice in me to share after I’m done with you, my Yuuri.”

 

 

Funnily enough, closing his eyes and visualizing actually works. Yuuri’s alone, listening to the song, thinking sexy thoughts, when it starts to fall into place. He thinks of Victor. It should have been more obvious. He thinks of them on stage together, them in bed together.

He doesn’t tell Alexi this. Yuuri shows him, walks him through it, and then starts making it happen step by step.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t stay in the studio, just how Victor’s skating doesn’t stay at the rink. They catch each other humming their songs, swishing their bodies. They smile at each other, nod their heads to the rhythm and to each other, passing by with a touch of the hand.  Yuuri’s busier than he’s been in a long time, out of the apartment nearly all day, but there’s a date on his calendar that demands much of him and Victor’s promising to bring home a gold to them, to Russia.

It’s innocuous when Victor comes up behind Yuuri one evening to wrap him in his arms. Yuuri’s phone is playing “Dangerous Woman,” hell the whole album, and Yuuri had been blissfully singing along as he did the dishes. He stops singing in surprise but proceeds more quietly when Victor hums it along a little and kisses his cheek.

“Yuuri~”

He knows that tone of voice.

Victor nuzzles under his temple and grazes his teeth over the top of Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri straightens his shoulders with a small shudder.

“You have been so secretive about this performance. Not a single video clip has leaked.”

Alexi and he had agreed that they should keep it all under wraps. They promoted in stillshots but nothing more, nothing even of the song. If they were going to perform for an audience, they wanted to give them every bit of a show as possible. The teaser they’d done of Yuuri blindfolded had been hit.

“You like surprises.”

“But I like being spoiled too.” Victor squeezes his arms around Yuuri’s middle, sighing loudly. “You are gone almost every night with some other man, dancing a sexy dance; do you know how hard it is for me to be patient?”

Victor says it lightly enough, joking, but Yuuri knows that it’s no joke. Victor has been really good about his possessive tendencies this time around, Yuuri’s honestly surprised. It’s led mostly to Victor being handsy when they’re along together and maybe a few more hickies in inappropriate places than normal. But there’s been no arguments, no needling remarks. He’s behaved, as far as conversation is considered.

“I know you can be patient for me, Puppy,” Yuuri says, drying his hands. Victor makes a little noise of agreement and presses that much closer, teeth out again in nibbling kisses that ignite Yuuri.

“Maybe I am feeling naughty,” Victor argues. He starts kissing the other side of Yuuri’s neck, slow and tempting, lingering and letting his hot breath spill over Yuuri’s skin and stir shivers. “I see you swaying Yuuri, hear you singing, and I can’t help myself.”

He reaches now for Yuuri’s phone. Yuuri leans back against his broad chest, eyes half-lidded, letting him do as he pleases. Which is press into Yuuri’s ass as he thumbs the song back to its beginning. He doesn’t know the words very well but Victor manages an admirable job of rumbling along to the first verse in his purring baritone, accent drawing the words out too long by a half beat so that he’s inevitably off-track.

“Don’t need permission…made my…decision…god as my witness, start what I finished…” he trails off to rub himself all against Yuuri. Yuuri can’t hold back a laugh at the terrible come-on he’s getting from his boyfriend. Victor chuckles into his neck and rubs his mouth against the knob of Yuuri’s spine. When the chorus comes, Victor grabs his hips and grinds them together, throwing his head back to belt out the lyrics. “Something about you~~~ makes me feel like a dangerous woman~~!!!”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri cackles, turning in Victors grip to drag him into a kiss to smother Victor’s cracking voice. Victor tries to sing into Yuuri’s mouth, obnoxious, making the kiss too spitty. “Vitya-puppy.”

“Something-bout, something-bout,” Victor croons, voice softening, gaze midnight blue as he lowers it, bouncing between Yuuri’s mouth and his eyes. “Something bout you.”

Yuuri’s charmed, throat thick with Victor’s affection for him, for his affection for Victor. Yuuri kisses him, already hot for him. Victor moans at the reward, lips parting. Yuuri presses into him, flicking his tongue against the tip of Victor’s tongue, aroused by the returning touch. Yuuri winds his fingers into Victor’s loose hair, the silk a shimmering touch, how cool it feels until Yuuri can find the hot base of Victor’s skull. He rocks on his tip toes, changing the angle, making Victor laugh and adjust his hold on Yuuri’s hips to keep them from tipping too far one way.

“You’re my inspiration, Victor. I thought about you the entire time I choreographed it, every time I dance it, hear this song,” Yuuri confesses when he pulls back, Victor’s teeth tugging at his bottom lip. Victor’s eyes spark and his mouth drops open in a little ‘o’. His head tilts and Yuuri knows that every bit of Victor’s being is focused on him. Being the keeper of so much of Victor, possessing him even in the smallest ways, flames a conquering power in Yuuri’s chest, burns a blood-rich possessiveness in his loins.

He bends Victor back, holding his weight; Victor lets him, keyed into Yuuri’s guiding touch. It’s a dip and a leg lift, groins drawn together. Yuuri lets his weight flutter and Victor only inhales but doesn’t scrabble, doesn’t struggle. Yuuri kisses his arched chest and draws him back to both feet, dancing them away from the kitchen sink, spinning them lazily.

“I listened and listened, creating the fantasy in my head. At first,” and Yuuri pushes Victor down into a chair from the kitchen table, twisting around behind it and draping his arms over Victor, dragging his hands hotly up his body, then down, then up again, rucking Victor’s shirt, scratching his skin. Victor arches out of his seat. “I made you the dangerous woman.” His hands close fleetingly around Victor’s neck, then into his hair to muss it playfully, “but you are too sweet.”

 _“Da?”_ Victor squeaks, dropping his head back to keep his eyes on Yuuri. Yuuri leans down to kiss him upside-down. Victor parts his lips immediately and Yuuri can’t resist the peculiar eroticism of the angle, the incongruous match of their mouths; he slips his tongue into Victor’s mouth and licks him out, taking with him a little wanting whine from his precious puppy. He catches Victor’s eyes, the fluttering of white-blonde lashes; he kisses Victor’s nose and then Victor’s smiling lazily at him, knowingly.

“So you’re the dangerous woman?” Victor guesses. He gropes his hands up to pull Yuuri down into another kiss, fingers carding through Yuuri’s short but fluffy hair.

Yuuri hadn’t said it out loud ever, his assessment and conclusion, but hearing it from Victor makes him blush, halfway between pleasure and embarrassment. He slips around in front of Victor and gets pulled into his lap, legs spread across Victor’s muscled thighs.

“You _are_ dangerous,” Victor agrees, hands under Yuuri’s shirt but only to touch his warm skin with his wide palms. There’s no joke there, no indulgence. Victor means it.

Yuuri ducks his head. It’s good to hear, right? It’s confirmation.

“You talk about your woman self,” he shrugs, shrinking as he tries to explain himself, make himself clear. Victor’s hands rub up and down his spine, warming him. “So I tried to find mine. And I think…she’s like this. Like this song.

Victor hums once, short. “That’s interesting. She’s tangible to you? Mine feels so mythic and elusive. She’s not sexual, just emotional.”

“Ah,” Yuuri clears his throat. “Mine is…that makes me feel dirty,” he admits in a whisper. “She’s definitely a sexual part of me.”

Victor, sensing Yuuri’s trepidation in the admission, draws his hands around Yuuri’s body and up to his face to brush his hair back from his forehead and touch his smooth cheeks. “So you are the dangerous woman in your dance?”

Yuuri holds onto the offering for dear life. He’s freshly wound, filled with a kinetic energy that needs release. “No. It’s Alexi. The woman figure, however loose an interpretation, has the better part. I was meant to showcase his abilities.”

Victor grunts, disapproving and dismissive. “I do not care for him. Tell me more about you, Yuuri. How is your woman?” Victor presses on Yuuri’s heart, smiling at him. Yuuri wants to eat him whole for his sweetness. He picks Victor’s hand up in his own and kisses it, slots their fingers together. The grip, the alignment of bones, knuckles knocked together like bites of a key, has long become familiar to him. There’s no reason to marvel, but he still does, taking Victor in, their hands made one, marveling at the love between them. Even this, speaking his mind on such a new and private revelation of his own character and desires, is a constant comfort from being with Victor for so long; it excites him about the prospect of their future, of having a partner he trusts and can explore with.

“She’s demanding,” Yuuri says, bringing forth his private contemplations, feeling an inside soul made into words and real. “She wants to be embraced and worshiped. She’s…gluttonous. She’d want to make the most fantastic men beg at her feet.”

Yuuri spreads himself wider across Victor’s lap, sits straight. He feels himself swelling in his chest with breath and in his cock with blood, tantalized by the potential of himself. Victor’s eyes are on him. “She wants to fuck.” Yuuri lets the word fall full and fat from his lip. Victor’s breath hitches, his hand twitches. “She…might be an incubus. She would _love_ to possess a man like _Victor Nikiforov_.”

Yuuri smirks. Victor Nikiforov. Russia’s Darling, rising star. An ice skater that the world will soon know is incomparable.

Victor shudders, arms around Yuuri again. He kisses him like it’s conditioned into him, soft and brief, impulsive. Yuuri hums. “Yuuri. She sounds powerful,” he tells Yuuri, as if it is not obvious. “I can’t wait to meet this part of you.”

Yuuri nods, ears ringing. He can’t wait either. She’s not ready, but soon. He can feel the torrent of her, the dancing illusion burgeoning in his body. He can’t wait to show Victor either.

 

It’s a late night at the studio. Victor’s away for a small but obnoxiously necessary qualifier competition for the World Championship. It’s one he missed last year and is making up for now. It’s good, another taste of the competition before the big showdown, a teaser and a reassurance for all staking money on Worlds. But that leaves Yuuri alone, Makka gone with Victor to sit beside Yakov at the Kiss & Cry – Victor’s slowly slowly working her into the more chaotic aspects of his life. Someone gave him a big Makka plushie at the Grand Prix and Yakov is stuck carrying it around to hand to Victor to hug when he’s off the ice; the internet _loves it_. Yakov’s surly frown and the stuffed animal make a great meme.

He spends it at the studio, not working on the Dangerous Woman routine but his own personal stuff, the used camera he bought off Phichit set up on a low tripod to record him. It catches his mid-air falter when the door cracks open loudly and Alexi springs his way into the shot. Alexi meets Yuuri as he leaves his _tour en l'air_ , holding his waist.

“Did we have a practice I did not know?” Alexi asks. They share lifting each other in the routine, and Yuuri has grown used to have his weight taken from him by Alexi.

“No.” Yuuri closes in on the shot and the camera clicks off. “But I didn’t feel like being home alone. Why are you here so late?”

Alexi smiles, leaning his hands back on his hips and stretching, all long tight muscle. “I forgot my charger.” He pulls out the white cable from his back pocket of a nice pair of jeans. “But now I think it was fate. I will take you to eat.”

Yuuri hasn’t eaten much. He forgets, when he loses himself in focus. Ever since the fight, Victor’s been a harpy about Yuuri missing meals. Victor takes truly stunningly good care of himself, whatever wayward indulgences from last year aggravated by his Bipolar have been skinned away. Victor has an app on his phone to remind himself of meals and macro and micro nutrients, and the app had popped up on Yuuri’s phone one day with positive little messages about eating and his body. When he checks it, the notification has popped up twice; he didn’t confirm that he ate so the second one is distressed. He agrees to a meal.

They end up grabbing take-away from a restaurant and going to Yuuri and Victor’s apartment so Yuuri can shower and put on clean clothes. Alexi waves him away to the bathroom, saying he’ll make tea. So Yuuri locks the door and cleans up. The second he’s under the water, his heart finally settled, he starts to shake. He shampoos his hair with leaden arms and slouches his way into that comfy tracksuit he’d been gifted.

“You look tired,” Alexi observes. He dumps another heaping serving onto a plate and sets it at the cramped kitchen table. “Eat, Yuuri. You are too brilliant to faint. I would not know what to do.”

Yuuri laughs and smiles to quiet Alexi’s worried face. “Sorry. You don’t need to worry about me. Thank you for this; I don’t like eating alone.”

Alexi pauses at the counter where the takeaway boxes are and looks at the fresh roses jumping up from a porcelain vase. Victor’s parting gift. “You are alone often.”

Yuuri shrugs and gulps down his water.

Alexi’s been over to the apartment quite a few times and he navigates the space with confidence, dropping down across from Yuuri and scooting his chair in so that their knees touch beneath the table. Yuuri shifts away but inevitably stretches his legs out, rolling his ankles. He sees Alexi doing the same thing, the farthest leg stretched out from underneath the table, foot rolling round and round, toes flexing forward and backward in his sock. Yuuri laughs once more, genuine; if that were him and Victor was watching, Victor would take that as a ‘come hither’ gesture.

Alexi’s eyebrows raise at the sound and he smiles at Yuuri, leaning over the table. “What is funny?”

Yuuri blushes. That’s not something he can explain. “Nothing,” he mumbles, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. He hates forks, but the reusable chopsticks are in little sleeves in the drawer and Alexi doesn’t know to look for them.

Alexi doesn’t look away. Yuuri gropes for a napkin from the little holder and wipes his mouth, feeling his cheeks being full, hearing his own chewing. Wow, he takes it back. He’ll eat alone, thanks, bye.

“Yuuri,” Alexi sighs, dropping his hand down onto Yuuri’s fist that’s brutalizing the napkin. “You look miserable every time he leaves you. You are alone too often.”

Yuuri swallows prematurely and tries valiantly not to choke, throat aching. He puts down the fork so he doesn’t impulsively stab himself in the eye in a desperate attempt to creat a diversion. _“Huh?”_

“We all see it.” Alexi takes up his other hand, arms stretched across the table. “I did not forget my charger. I knew you would be at the studio tonight with _him_ gone.”

Alexi says _him_ like Victor is a blight.

“It’s not—uh—I miss him?” Yuuri blinks, flushed and dismayed, poleaxed by the forthright observation.

Yuuri doesn’t read comments online, not on his material nor on Victor’s. Everyone once in awhile, he pays some young kid back in Japan who Phichit knows from work to go through the comments and find genuine questions and bring them to Yuuri’s attention. He and Victor each have their own set of fans, some kind and supportive, some sex-addled, some terrifying. They have their “haters” too. Some of their haters are fans of the other. Yuuri tries really hard not to listen to people talk about him and Victor because people seem to always have something to say about them.

Behind them, on the wall, hangs their massive family photo. It’s all the commentary Yuuri needs.

“We are friends, Yuuri, yes?” Alexi presses. “You do not need to feel alone because one man is gone.” He slides his thumb up between the knuckles of Yuuri’s fingers, a hot stroke of skin.

The electric kettle beeps at them as it shuts off, the background rumble of boiling water leaving the room with nothing but petrified silence. Yuuri jolts from his seat, face burning, hands shaking.

“I don’t feel alone. I only miss him,” Yuuri says, hunched over his tea set. His brain’s a flatline of confusion. There’s no way – that doesn’t mean – that wasn’t-- “But, uhm, thank you, Alexi. I know I have friends here.”

“As long as you know,” Alexi says. He’s eating innocently when Yuuri turns back to the table. “Did you see what the **MM** crew posted of their routine? They used one of BIBI’s early songs. Predictable, no?"

Nothing else weird happens and by the end of the meal and after Alexi has bid him a fond farewell, Yuuri crashes into bed dazed and sure he imagined the murky trespass. It was nothing. It isn’t worth mentioning. Victor’s hyper focused on skating and he doesn’t deserve to have his attention rattled by something so meaningless as this. It’s stupid. Yuuri won’t distract him. It’s not even worth distracting himself with, of bringing it up ever again. Alexi is his partner in this dance, a student at the studio, a friendly and committed dancer. That was just concern, friendship. If it made Yuuri feel weird, that was his own problem.

 

When Victor comes home, Yuuri’s on him. The last two days of _missing him_ had felt like an eternity. Victor’s wearing his little medal and Yuuri wraps the ribbon of it around his fist, drags Victor into a kiss made to melt bones. Victor eases into his hands, so soft and sweet, and Yuuri covers his body in kisses, tends to all the hurts of his battered feet and ankles, conditions his hair and scratches his scalp. He loves his cock into Victor deep enough that he wears the smell of Victor on his skin for days, shows off on his proudly raised neck the bruised rewards of his happy puppy.

Alexi is all business; they run through their routine again and again. Yuuri closes his eyes and thinks of a different body dancing beside him.

Victor laughs in an interview when they ask him if he thinks that he’ll take gold at Worlds: “My boyfriend says I will. I tend to agree with him.”

 

* * *

 

 

[Phichit grinning at the camera, arms around one of South Korea’s top male skaters, Seung-gil Lee, who is begrudgingly acknowledging that his photo is being taken.]

 **Phichit+chu** omg I LOVE this guy he’s so wild!! I felt like a real skating fan when I recognized him <3

 

 

 

Makkachin whines and boofs happily when Victor finally comes home from practice. Yuuri hears her, hears Victor’s happy cooing; the thump of his gear bag, the clacking of Makka’s nails on the floor. Yuuri’s been busy preparing himself for Victor’s arrival, but now it settles into him, excitement crawling down his spine, skin pebbling. He adjusts himself on the bed, every pillow in the house gathered around him. They’ll be thrown across the room in pleasured fury by the end of this game but for now, Yuuri lounges on a thrown of mismatched patterns, a particularly padded one at the ready beside him.

Victor ducks into the bedroom finally, sending Makkachin back to sleep on the couch. Yuuri had run her once Victor sent him those texts, so she’s settled for the night. They can focus on each other. And focus they do; the lamps are on beside the bed, casting the room in a muffle light, red from the shades. Victor leans against the door, still in his all black practice clothes, barefooted, deliciously disheveled already. The sight of him alone makes Yuuri’s dick twitch and his ass throb around the plug keeping him stretched, keeping all the lube from leaking out onto the vintage Christian Dior Monsieur robe someone had given Victor that he had in turn given to Yuuri, the dark maroon of the velvet perfect for him, Victor had said. It’s too big, falling down around Yuuri’s shoulders; Victor loves that.

Victor wastes no more time in looking; he sees Yuuri’s flaunted nudeness, the temptation of him among his feigned royal throne. He stalks forward, coming to cage Yuuri against the bed, pushing him back and half crawling onto the mattress to kiss him. Even in the time it took for him to drive from the rink back to the apartment, he’s still hot from exertion, lips salt-sticky although his breath is crisp from mouthwash. Yuuri folds beneath him, passive, thrilling in Victor’s roughening kiss as his hands grope at Yuuri’s bare thighs. The smell of him, ripe sweat, so much a man, cuts into Yuuri with desire, forcing out a trembling breath that Victor gluts on, draws out by forcing Yuuri’s thighs apart in so swift and familiar a motion that Yuuri almost forgets that they are going to play a game well worth staving off both of their immediate satisfactions.

He draws back slightly, licking Victor’s sweat off his mouth, and Victor hums into the pause of kisses, squeezing Yuuri’s flesh.

“Vitya,” Yuuri breathes, finally reaching up, breaking his doll-like stillness to touch Victor’s reddened lips. “do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.” Victor’s eyes are already lidded, already dark. But he says _yes_ politely, so much like he’s asking for it for the first time. “Please.”

He’s so good. Yuuri can’t believe he gets to be in love with this man.

“Will you let me destroy you first? Will you let me take you apart?” Yuuri kisses the back of his own fingers against Victor’s mouth, the barrier between their lips a premonition. Victor breathes out, tongue touching the seam of fingers like he means to slip it past and into Yuuri’s mouth.

“Destroy me? Am I meeting the dangerous woman inside you, my Yuuri?” His hands high between Yuuri’s thighs back off, sliding rough ice-scraped palms down to his knees, a gentleman’s retreat.

“Yes.” Yuuri thought this through. He wants to show Victor more of himself, this self that he’s discovered in this new part of his life. “Be warned: she’s a wicked goddess.”

“A goddess,” Victor considers thoughtfully. He shuffles off the bed, fingers trailing out from Yuuri’s robe entirely. His smile is small but there, excitement and surprise written on his face, that delightful wideness of his expression that Yuuri first fell in love with. “She may do her worst to this lowly mortal,” he offers, even going so far as to bow like a prince.

Yuuri giggles and Victor bows lower, taking up Yuuri’s ankle and kissing the top arch of his foot. It’s a ploy for Victor to suppress his own laughter, smothering his smile against Yuuri’s foot, covering the chuckles with loud cartoonish kiss noises

“You are the best of men,” Yuuri praises, getting back into character. It’s a rocky performance but his words are true to his ears. He rests his hand generously on Victor’s head. He carefully undoes the elastic of Victor’s ponytail and eases his hair down. “Victor Nikiforov.” Yuuri pushes the nicest pillow onto the floor in front of him, at Victor’s feet. “Kneel to me.”

Victor adjusts the pillow and does so, eyes on Yuuri the whole time, waiting, already entangled. Yuuri scoots to the edge of the bed and guides Victor’s face to his thigh, to rest his cheek there to  relax as Yuuri combs his fingers through his hair, easing out delicate tangles from his fairytale-silver mane. He says nothing until he feels Victor shift closer, an eased sigh ghosting over Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri rubs down over Victor’s shoulders until they droop; he touches him like this, rubbing his neck and scalp and shoulders, for several minutes, clearing Victor’s head of the day, making Yuuri’s touch the only sensation on his mind.

“Victor,” Yuuri begins, just loud enough to hear. He feels Victor’s eyelashes flutter against his skin, face obscured as it is by his hair, by Yuuri’s hands never ceasing their soothing ministrations. “Would you like to worship me? Beg for me?”

A kiss presses into his thigh. “Yes.” Victor sounds gleeful. Yuuri hums and strokes the outter shell of his ear. He swallows, rehearsing the next line in his head.

“Would you like my mouth? My cock? My hole?” Yuuri barely manages not to choke on the words, grateful Victor can’t see how red his face is; his cheeks burn but the hot loud gasp from Victor at his feet quells his nerves.

“Yes,” Victor whispers, voice dropped, punched now. His next kiss has his tongue touching Yuuri’s skin, just a lick, a suck, like he can’t stop himself from tasting Yuuri. Yuuri thrills. His nails scratch down Victor’s scalp and neck, leave a prick of redness.

“Will you give me your mouth, your cock, your hole? Your whole body?”

Can Victor hear Yuuri’s own obsession in his voice? Can he ehar that Yuuri wants him madly, wants to be on the ground with him, making love like animals, that Yuuri wants to raise Victor to heights beyond imagination? Yuuri blinks his eyes, overwhelmed by the reality that loving Victor makes being alive feel like a gift.

 _“Yes.”_ Victor’s hand finds and clutches Yuuri’s ankle, anchoring himself. Yuuri’s breath goes from his lungs in a whoosh. _“Yuuri.”_

Fuck. Yuuri flattens his hand to the back of Victor’s head and presses him into his thigh, lets Victor bite into his skin, hunger an ache in his teeth. Victor bites until Yuuri flinches from the pain and eases him off with his fist in Victor’s hair, tight enough that Victor doesn’t dare resist.

He already looks fucked, glossy-eyed, blinking dazedly up at Yuuri.

“So good, Vitya,” Yuuri whispers, stroking his cheek with his free hand. Victor smiles, sweet and pleased. Yuuri smiles in return and releases him, scooting back on the bed to recline slightly on the mounds of pillows. When the position’s right, Yuuri relaxes and lifts his foot up to Victor’s face, lets Victor catch his heel in his hands. Victor, impulsive, kisses the arch of his sole. Yuuri sighs, suppressing the ticklish need to kick and free his foot.

“You may start here with your worship,” he commands airily. Victor lifts his face, eyebrows raised in interest. Yuuri smiles leisurely, laughing quietly. “Take all the time you’d like, but when you get to here,” Yuuri touches himself over the robe, tracing his hardness. Victor’s pupils dilate, “when you reach this part of me, you may not stop until you swallow everything I give you. Understand?”

Victor’s mouth pulls tight and he looks between what he holds in his hands and what else he wants with a flash of annoyance that Yuuri laughs at again for its obviousness. Victor snorts and nips Yuuri’s big toe, making him flinch.

“Oh, yes, my goddess,” he chirps, still too at ease. He always starts bold until Yuuri has him begging. He slides his lips over Yuuri’s big toe, tongue flat and hot and peculiar. Yuuri pulls in his grip, can’t help himself, But Victor’s hands are tight and strong; only the best of men for Yuuri. Victor sucks and Yuuri bites down on a noise. Victor smirks when he pulls off, delivering another lick. “I understand. My worship will be…thorough.”

He wiggles Yuuri’s little toe with a whisper of “little piggy, wee-wee-wee.” Yuuri collapses against the pillows, giggling.

 

 

Two hours and only one orgasms later, Victor’s no longer teasing. After he’d taking Yuuri’s permission and run with it, fucking the space between Yuuri’s feet and then licking them clean, and after he’d given Yuuri one of the best blowjobs of his life, Yuuri went to his knees on the floor and unveiled a trap of soothing aloe wipes and washed Victor’s feet with them, saying these ugly battered feet were beautiful, that they were magical, kissing them and holding damp clean wipes to the blisters on the back of his heels until Yuuri was satisfied that they were clean enough and he patched them and rolled a thin cotton sock over each foot to hold the antiseptic and bandaids in place. Victor almost cried from the gentle care, forgetting the game and wanting to cuddle and kiss Yuuri.

“Only the best for my lover,” Yuuri promised to his tender-struck puppy, feeling powerful and loving in the reflection of Victor’s eyes. Yuuri stripped him and kissed every inch of his skin for an eternity, tongue and teeth alternating until Victor wasn’t sure if lips brought pain or pleasure. Victor tasted like sweat and Yuuri loved how it made his mouth run. Yuuri kissed his fingertips until they tingled and mouthed at his thighs like they were honeysuckle sweet, till they trembled like shaken leaves. Satisfied that Victor was primed and wanting all over again, Yuuri sucked his cock slowly, licked his balls, told him how good he smelled down there. A cursory wipe late, he pushed his face into Victor’s ass and Victor remembered that Yuuri doesn’t need to play goddess to be wicked and terrible.

He’s been ‘forbidden’ by the goddess from touching himself, that his pleasure will be spent inside of Yuuri’s body, so now he tears at the sheets, thrusting into the air as Yuuri holds him spread apart, bent in half. His cock bounces wetly against his hard stomach, dark with blood. Yuuri has two fingers and his tongue in his ass and Victor rips the mattress cover from the top corners of the bed, crying through his teeth at the relentless pleasure. Yuuri pops his head up every couple of minutes to _grin_ and smack a kiss on Victor’s cock or exchange a dirty kiss that makes them both groan and tighten in their cores.

If Victor didn’t love being broken, Yuuri wouldn’t love doing the breaking. But looking at him, hearing him, tasting him come apart is timeless bliss. Because Yuuri gives it all back to him. They can turn themselves over to each other, find an equivalent return.

He sits back from Victor’s thighs finally, jaw sore and tongue too tired to keep going, and wipes his face off with an aloe wipe, mops it across his sweaty brows. Victor closes his legs tightly with a cry then opens them again, twisting up to flash Yuuri the dark spread of his asshole. God. Yuuri could eat him forever. That’s what Victor is begging him to do. To do anything to finish him, to let him come. His lean hips undulate in the air, fucking nothing. He’s a marvel, spread out and ruined.

Yuuri drinks hastily from _another_ bottle of sports drink, downing half of it in a go. He sits Victor up, reassuring him, praising him, and gets Victor to drink while Yuuri licks at the sweat on his chest, kisses his nipples, Victor’s puffing chest and racing heart train-roaring under his tongue. He squeezes Victor’s cock and Victor whines, blue drink dribbling out of his mouth. Yuuri laughs and wipes it away with his own sticky hand, transferring fluid for fluid. Victor glares weakly, hair matted to his face. He finishes the bottle and pointedly throws it off the bed.

Yuuri hums, watching the bottle rolls across the room and plunk against the wall.

“Yuuri.”

His name’s a rasp of warning. Yuuri turns his face back to Victor and into a kiss that becomes a full bodied assault as Victor uses his larger size to overturn Yuuri. Yuuri lets him, helps Victor get between his legs. The plug he’s been wearing has been teased but not yet removed, and now it leaves him in a jerk of retribution that makes him arch and groan. Victor’s inside him, naked and hot, not a moment later, pushing up through the heavy squelch of lube. Fucks the whole way into Yuuri until Yuuri can feel the length of him on the back of his tongue, all of Victor’ pent-up frustration, his reborn pride and pursuit of pleasure.

Yuuri keens as Victor drives into him, long and deep, hips hitting hard on his ass. He wants to wonder at Victor’s boundless energy but then again he is a top athlete in his prime in the peak of the season. It’s a gift Yuuri doesn’t take for granted, having this breed of lover. He’s been filled and squeezing on that plug for hours, nursing the wanting itch deep inside him, and now Victor’s relieving it. He thinks nothing of throwing his head back against the sweat soaked pillow, holding onto Victor and chanting: “fuck me, fuck me, Vitya. Come inside me, fuck me, god, good, feel so good” in a stupid senseless repetition.

He doesn’t think anything of it until he notices the strange absence of kisses, Victor’s mouth not even sloppily slanted to his. He blinks through his lashes, sight skewed, and Victor’s just _there_. He’s propped over Yuuri, pinning him, fucking him, but staring at him with an unknowable expression, sharp and too-clear despite the sauna of the room.

“Vitya?” Yuuri mumbles, shaking his head as if to rid himself of confusion. “Vicchan?”

Victor pulls out and in a swift motion, flips Yuuri over and drives him onto his hands and knees. As if there’s blood to spare, Yuuri’s face goes hot as Victor slides back into him, a hand on Yuuri’s hip, other snagging his hair. Victor _never_ fucks him like this, on all fours from behind. He likes best when Yuuri rides him—this is nothing like that. He grinds into Yuuri’s ass, hand running up and down the arch of Yuuri’s spine and, dissatisfied with that, uses the hand in Yuuri’s hair to sit Yuuri up on his knees so they’re chest-to-back, pasted together. It changes the curve of Victor inside him, sinks Yuuri down onto his cock just a little more, lets it press towards his belly. He moans, head on Victor’s shoulder.

“Victor?”

“That’s it, Yuuri,” Victor urges, rocking into him. He loosens the hold in Yuuri’s hair and kisses his temple, his cheek, turns Yuuri’s face so they can meet in a slide of tongue. “Who’s fucking you?”

“You?”

Yuuri clenches around him and Victor jerks. He holds them close and starts pumping into Yuuri, short, compounding strokes that push up-up-up into Yuuri’s guts.

“Who worships you, Yuuri?” Victor growls.

“You do.” Yuuri sighs, understanding, and twists to catch Victor’s lips, let Victor grunt greedily into his mouth.

“Me,” Victor says, maybe to himself. He nips Yuuri’s neck. “I do this.”

“Only you, Vitya. Just you. I only –– only want the best of – the best.”

This time when Victor pushes him forward, Yuuri braces for it. He shoves his ass back onto Victor’s cock and hurries backwards into the pounding, urging Victor along. “Fuck me. Come in me, Victor Nikiforov. Make me yours, Vitya, do it – do it.”

Victor finishes inside him for one of the few times Yuuri’s wanted it without a condom. He’s such a mess that it doesn’t matter that Victor fucks through it and come spills out around his cock to ooze wetly down Yuuri’s taint and drip from his balls. They’re long past filthy. Yuuri strips himself off onto the bed, going so tense with his orgasm that Victor whimpers and pulls out of him, leaving Yuuri aching with emptiness and clenching desperately for Victor to see through blurry eyes. He definitely looks at the dribbles of his come running out of Yuuri’s puffy hole because he presses his thumb against the throbbing muscle and mutters “that’s mine,” loud enough for Yuuri to hear. Whether he’s talking about Yuuri’s body or his come, it doesn’t matter; both are his.

They crawl over each other in bed, kicking everything onto the floor and laying on the poor naked mattress. Victor lays directly on top of Yuuri, the angle terrible for the exhausted kisses they want to share; they settle for pressing their mouths against each other, every sense filled with the other.

Yuuri’s in the best shape of them. He bundles Victor up in a clean sheet and deposits him on the couch with a complete meal shake that tastes like chocolate milk. He brings out enough bedding for them to survive a night on the couch and runs the shower warm then Victor both in under the spray. Victor’s listing and needy for cuddles and Yuuri _can’t_ stop touching him. It’d gutted him to walk away from Victor just to get the shower ready. He can’t stop touching Victor, needs to be with him now or he swears he’ll die.

“Have I told you today that I’m in love with you?” Victor asks, pawing at Yuuri weakly, kissing any skin that comes close to him.

“Tell me again, Puppy.”

“Yuuri, I’m _so_ in love with you…” He smiles dopily and Yuuri matches it, pressing against him, touching his skin like he’s newborn thing. “I will marry you, Katsuki Yuuri. You know that, yes? We will be husbands.”

“I know,” Yuuri whispers, resting his cheek on Victor’s shoulder. Victor hugs him and Yuuri shivers despite the hot water. “You promised me in Hasetsu.”

“I did,” Victor grins, letting is head loll against the wall of the shower. He fondles Yuuri’s ass, pleased with himself as his fingers slip into Yuuri’s soaked hole.

 

Yuuri sends Yakov a text when they’re back at the couch saying that Victor needs a recovery day _tomorrow_ and not to disturb him. Yakov knows better than to respond to anything sent to him at this hour of night short of an emergency.  It’s only a brief reprieve. Victor’s back on his feet the day after the next, vicious with his regime. He kisses Yuuri in the morning, leaving from their bed first. “I will take all the gold from my medals and make you ring after ring, my Yuuri. Would you like that?”

He picks up Yuuri’s hand and kisses the base of his knuckles. “My goddess. They will be gifts. Tokens of my love.”

“That’s generous,” Yuuri mumbles sleepily, snuggling into the warm spot Victor left behind and curling around Makkachin. “Byebye. Be good at practice.”

 

* * *

 

 

The dance competition couldn’t arrive fast enough. Yuuri already invited everyone he knew to reserve the date. Mila promised to livestream it for Yuuri’s family and Phichit and Chris and the professionally done video would get edited for his youtube channel. The anticipation makes him restless. Victor ceremoniously gives him a hundred kisses the day leading up to the competition and Yuuri closes his eyes in the wings of the stage, remembering each one.

“Are you ready?” Alexi asks. He’s hopping on his toes, looking at him – not with a trace of his usual easy confidence but with a sweaty nervousness. Yuuri looks at him through the dark, seeing his face in shadow, and remembers that he’s young and he has more riding on this than Yuuri. Yuuri already has a name for himself, already has a generous following. This could make Alexi’s career as a young dancer, slip him into a music video that regardless of anything, would be popular because of the name it went along with.

“We’re going to do great,” Yuuri promises him. He hugs Alexi, his bare chest pressing into the soft leather of Alexi’s imitation corset.

“Yuuri,” Alexi whispers, hugging him fiercely. Yuuri watches over Alexi’s shoulder as the routine ahead of them comes to a close; the audience hoots and cheers. It’s all been good fun. The selection of participants had been culled two weeks ago via video submission of a segment of the routines’ the judges wanted to maintain their surprise but couldn’t realistically have a hundred different people perform in a day. The producer for the studio, the individual artist, the assigned lead choreographer and some entertainment critic and a dance critic are lined up in the front row, clipboards and pens ready.

"Next is Yuuri Katsuki and Alexi Murdock performing to Ariana Grande’s “Dangerous Woman”, choreographed by Yuuri Katsuki."

Alexi pecks him on the lips, leaving behind the shadow of the red lipstick he’s wearing.

 

It’s dark but Yuuri manages to find the orange tape on the stage to mark where he settles the sturdy chair for their routine. Yuuri’s heart jackrabbits in his chest, faster and faster until the beat disappears, too quick and constant, dissolving into a hum of blood. The lights come up, instantly hot, and he whites out as the music starts, throwing an expression long rehearsed onto his face; the sure knowledge that he could never be a singer or actor sticks out as his body begins to move, how stuck and full his throat is. He’s only good for breathing and moving, he needs no speech.

The beginning of the routine matches the softer tones of the music; Ariana’s high, almost wispy voice leads Yuuri and Alexi into a touch-and-go display of lovers, positions mirrored one in front of the other, coming across the stage, each gesture matching the end of a line with an _allongé_ on the pose, just a breath that they’re frozen together before they move on. Then, as the music turns, so does Alexi, turning from their congruency into something of a prowl, taking Yuuri and drawing him around, a playful stumble in his feet.

From there, Yuuri returns the roughness, lifting and throwing Alexi who spreads himself in the air, a dramatic reaching flail. It’s half a fight, push and pull, winding into each other. Alexi leads Yuuri backwards into the chair; seeming to catch and pin him. He leaps from the balance of Yuuri’s thighs over the chair and wraps a sheer blindfold around Yuuri’s eyes; Yuuri, the conquered boy, struggles with his impassioned lover. He dances blind, lead by Alexi, always reaching for him, teased, spellbound and cursed and entangled.

When the song finds it’s musical bridge, Yuuri rips free from his blindfold and overpowers Alexi again, appearing to drag him and tame him for only a moment before the vocals burst forth and Alexi is back to binding him. They lift and dip each other, legs pointed, bodies getting closer and closer. They begin to align again, Yuuri still blindfolded but haven given himself over to Alexi; their limbs lock; they roll, they leap, they spread sinfully. Yuuri ends in the chair, movements writhing between tortured and pleasured, Alexi possessing him.

Alexi makes a show of guiding Yuuri forward by the hand and taking off the blindfold for their bows before they make a mostly controlled exit from the stage, dragging the heavy chair, ears deafened by the cheers.

The first figure to shoot out of their seat with a clambering applause is Victor, his hair a white glow in the dark crowd. Yuuri’s heart surges and all he can hope is that he made Victor proud.

They move away from the wings and out into the hallway where the rest of the finished dancers are milling about, some having gone to sit in the theatre, others slumped on the floor in various stages of grief. Alexi tackles him in another fierce hug, breathing hard, silent. Yuuri remembers this rush, this dizzy energy. He shudders, starting to leak tears that he squeezes away. He’s cored, everything abandoned on the stage; he gave everything; he can’t remember a second of it. There and gone in an instant.

Alexi sniffles and withdraws; Yuuri lets him go; he doesn’t want to lose the contact; it’s the only thing keeping him upright. It must be obvious because Alexi grabs his hand, laughing hoarsely, and drags him down to the end of the hallway to shoulder his way into the bathroom. Yuuri stumbles up to a sink and slaps on the tap, sticking his hands under the cold water. Alexi reaches into it as well and cups a palmful to splash his own face and find himself. It’s too cluttered around the stage to have tried to keep any water bottles with hopes of finding them again; all of Yuuri’s things are in a bag with Victor; they make do for a moment, wiping sweat from their skin, catching their breaths.

“That was—“ Yuuri starts, hoping to find a kernel of wisdom, to elnd his experience to the post-performance high. He doesn’t get an farther than that because Alexi takes him with hands at the back of his head and kisses him. It’s urgent and hard, nothing like the quick greeting kisses Yuuri’s grown used to in Russia. Alexi’s breath gushes out to fill Yuuri’s horrified gasping mouth. It’s open and wet and so much more.

Yuuri pushes Alexi off of him, feeling the twist of fingers in his hair, hearing the break of their suctioned mouths. Sweat-salt is on his tongue. “No no no no,” Yuuri cries, throwing space between them, hands up and out like he means to fend Alexi off.

Alexi, for his part, is wide-eyed and confused. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Yuuri echoes. “What?”

 _“Yuuri,”_ Alexi admonishes, trying to take Yuuri’s hands. “It’s okay. I am sorry. I did not mean to surprise you—“

“ _Surprise me?”_ Yuuri sputters. “You kissed me!”

Alexi nods slowly. He steps into Yuuri’s space and puts a hand on Yuuri’s waist. “Yes. You….you did not want me to?”

“No!”

Yuuri scrubs a hand across his mouth, all that emptiness inside him caving in on itself.  He turns away from Alexi’s touch, hands that have become familiar over the course of their dancing. Hands he trusts to carry his weight. “What? No. What made you think – _Victor_.”

“Yuuri,” Alexi says again and it almost makes Yuuri scream. “It is okay. He does not need to know. You can—“

“He doesn’t need to know? What? _What?”_ Yuuri slumps back against the sink, the water still running into the faucet. He scoops up a sloppy handful and slurps it into his mouth, almost spits it out, feels sick, makes himself swallow it. He drags his wet hand through his hair, ruining the slick hold of pomade and gel.

“When we dance together, Yuuri, do you not feel—you cannot _not_ feel the desire, Yuuri. You touch me like a man who wants me.” Alexi’s at his back, expression sharp and hot in the mirror.

Yuuri looks up from the sink at Alexi’s earnest, heated face. “I think of Victor,” Yuuri whispers. He shakes his head, breath scratching out of his throat. “I am always thinking of Victor when we dance.”

Alexi’s face flattens. He recoils, embarrassed, tense and crossed. He looks down and misplaced guilt swells in Yuuri. He’s hurt Alexi now, mislead him.

“I’m sorry, Alexi. I didn’t know that you felt that way.”

He says it but once spoken, he knows it’s a lie. Victor told him, hadn’t he, that Alexi wanted him. And Yuuri had laughed it off and thought it foolish. But now, in this new undeniable light, everything Yuuri had brushed away, all the lingering touches, the close-press of bodies – he thought it had been for the dance, had thought himself imagining it. There was no way that someone could possibly think Yuuri receptive to advances when he was so in love with Victor.

“I thought I was clear in my interest,” Alexi says, standing back, arms crossed over his chest. His hip cocks out and he stares at the bathroom floor. “You never pushed me away.”

How long had this gone on? Yuuri groans, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize. I’m stupid. I’m stupid, I’m sorry. I didn’t believe Victor when he said that you liked me.”

“So _he_ said. _He_ saw. He knows you are away with another man all night and does nothing. What sort of man is he?” Alexi snaps, uncurling, hands downs taught at his sides with rigid fury. “He does not care that you are away with someone who could be fucking you every night!”

Anger rushes to the surface, as whitening of the world as the stage spotlight. Yuuri has no time to act on his rage.

“Of course I care.”

Victor’s voice is glacial, glass sharp and cold. They’re in the bathroom; everyone saw them come here; Victor knows where Yuuri likes to hide: did not find him waiting in the hall like he’d promised to be and came searching for his master, ever the loyal pet.

Alexi squares his shoulders, eyes narrow in a look Yuuri’s never seen on his face. He feels frozen, can’t move as Victor steps up behind him and presses in beside him, arm circling his waist. It’s gentle and strong and Yuuri leans into him, turning his face to stuff his nose against Victor’s neck to smell the bright tang of his cologne. Victor’s skin in burning hot.

“I do not like my Yuuri being away from me ever. But I know that he does not like smart-mouthed boys who are nothing but trouble and only looking for fun and a fuck, so I have no worries.”

Yuuri looks up, heart thumping in his chest, a hysterical laugh there. Victor’s grinning, merciless, cutting into the air with his pride and anger. He is Victor Nikiforov. Alexi is just a boy by comparison. Yuuri pities him, feels bad, but there’s something terrible and delicious here too, something so ugly and hungry that Yuuri shakes with it, stress, the come-down of the performance and the strung-high of this fight. He both hates and loves that Victor’s here right now, is ultimately grateful that Victor is sparing him the anxiety of having to tell him of what happened by dealing with it himself.

Victor tilts his head and presses a thoughtful finger to his mouth as he regards Alexi. Victor towers over him, bright and fierce. He taps his lips, pats Yuuri’s hip in time with the beat. “You’re nothing but a stray. I’m his pet.”

Yuuri groans and grabs for Victor’s collar, an admonishing jerk, a tightening around his throat. Victor hums, eyes finally coming to find Yuuri’s finally looking at him. They’re a fierce alien blue; his face is flushed. He’s angry, stiff and holding onto his wildness for Yuuri’s sake. “Be nice, Puppy.”

“I have no nice left in me, Yuuri,” Victor hushes, smiling around his teeth, all edges.

“I see,” Alexi says stiffly. It’s a chore to look at him. Yuuri want sto be alone with Victor, he wants to be home. “I’ve made a mistake.”

“You’re an idiot,” Victor bites, turning out towards Alexi in one fast move, grabbing his chin. His whole body is trembling with barely-held restraint. “I should slap you. Yuuri should slap you.”

“Victor!” Dread turns over sick in his stomach. Yuuri jolts forward after Victor. “It’s over. Please, don’t,” Yuuri interrupts, grabbing Victor’s hand. He doesn’t want to see this. Yuuri looks at Alexi; his eyes are red and his jaw’s quivering. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexi croaks, still holding himself so straight, the last of his dignity. Yuuri shakes his head, feeling the beginnings of himself falling apart.

“Don’t – don’t do that to people. Ever. _Ever_. Don’t—.” Yuuri sucks in a breath and lets it out too fast, turning from them both and leaving the bathroom. He catches the bright sound of Victor slapping Alexi and cursing him in Russian. Yuuri hurries down the hall, walking away as fast as possible, trying and failing not to break into a run. He’s shirtless, sweat cold on his skin. There’s no dancers down this corridor, only an exit. Victor’s shoes slap too when he runs after Yuuri, slamming out of the exit right behind him.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri turns in a panicked circle, soft ballet shoes kicking the gravel of the service vehicle lot that they’ve tumbled out onto. Victor snags him and hugs him, hand guiding Yuuri’s head to rest into his chest. His breath hitches, breath after breath, trying to keep it through his nose but its stuffy and his throat isn’t big enough.

He’s such an idiot. He’s a fucking idiot. If he only listened to Victor this wouldn’t have happened. If he had told Victor when he thought Alexi had made a pass at him or been peculiar. Victor would have helped him. And Yuuri could have been better, and not an idiot. Not leading on some brash boy. Alexi only did what he thought Yuuri wanted him to do, had kissed Yuuri like that because Yuuri had been letting him get close to him, be too intimate. Was too stupid to see what was so obvious. Now he’s hurt everyone. Victor’s so angry. Victor hit Alexi. This didn’t happen to Victor and Victor was the one who had to tell people no all the time. Yuuri couldn’t even do it right once. Victor never let someone touch him like Yuuri had let someone touch him.

“Yuuri, breathe with me. I’m going to count. It is okay. Let us breathe. Breathe-one-two. Breathe-one-two. _Ikiwohaku-ich-ni. Ikiwohaku-ich-ni_. It’s okay. No one is mad at you. You did nothing wrong.” 

Yuuri whimpers and shakes his head, fingers digging into Victor’s back. He hates this so much. He breathes, matching Victor’s exaggerated and slow breaths, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself off from dissolving into a full-blown panic attack.

“You h-hi-it h-him,” Yuuri chokes, words garbled between his tears and the fabric of Victor’s nice sweater.

“I did. I’m sorry.” Victor doesn’t sound sorry. He rubs Yuuri’s back. “He deserved it for what he said.”

Maybe he did.

“I’m s-sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Yuuri. I’m sorry that you were hurt by him. He was the wrong one. Not you, solnyshka. Not you.”

“I should have l-listened to you.”

“Shh, Yuuri. My Yuuri.  It is already behind us.” Victor scratches at his scalp, slow and soothing, humming something tuneless. Yuuri swallows a mouthful of spit and snuffles into his chest further, probably leaving big wet tearstains.

“He kissed me,” Yuuri whispers, lifting his head. Victor stops humming and blinks at him, eyes flicking down to Yuuri’s mouth. Victor heard Alexi saying awful things, but he wasn’t there for the kiss. If he’d been there for the kiss, Yuuri is sure he would have punched Alexi immediately, not settled for a slap.

“Now I have to kill him,” Victor says flatly. Yuuri’s heart spikes, but then he sees Victor’s wobbling mouth, the restrained smile.

Yuuri groans and drops his head back to Victor’s chest. “You’re terrible.”

“Call me Ivan.” Victor palms his cheek and draws Yuuri back for inspection; he licks the pad of his thumb and scrubs across Yuuri’s lips, face hard and clinical. It comes away with a smear of lipstick. “This shade does not suit you. My poor Yuuri, kissed by someone with no taste.”

“Well…at least he has good taste in men?” Yuuri jokes. Victor, bless his heart, laughs and nods, pecking Yuuri on the lips. Yuuri clings to him, grateful, relishing Victor’s laughter even if it’s quieter than usual.

“He does…” Victor sighs, still hovering over Yuuri’s’ mouth. The tips of his fingers brush over Yuuri’s cheek, swirling around the round height of it, back around his ear. “Yuuri. My Yuuri.”

“Your Yuuri,” Yuuri says, turning to kiss Victor’s wrist. “Puppy, can we go inside? I ran out here but I’m freezing.”

He is still shirtless, after all, and only wearing tights. Victor frowns at his state and whips off his sweater, ever capable of stripping in an instant. He shivers at the loss of heat, left in a thin button down. It’s very valiant. Yuuri admires the gesture before he gets a face full of sweater as Victor make a show of trying to stuff Yuuri into the sweater, both of them struggling more than a new parent with a flailing baby.

They find Mila, Anna, Georgi, and a few others. Yuuri changes, taking his time in the bathroom now that he’s free of the hugs and kisses from everyone, the effusive congratulations. Victor’s waiting outside the stall. He might not be mad at Yuuri but he’s still in a righteous state Yuuri can imagine his brooding face while no one’s looking at him; he’d been an automaton out with the others.

“I have to find Alexi,” Yuuri says when he emerges dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Victor’s jaw clenches at the name and Yuuri sighs again, wringing his hands into his sweatshirt. “he’s still my student. And my dance partner. I have to deal with this.”

“Fine. Mila said he’s with his sister.” Victor crosses his arms, looking down at Yuuri

“How do you know?”

Victor snorts and tosses his hair over his shoulder. “I wanted to know if the bastard ran away.”

Yuuri looks down at his shoes, wearied by the entire prospect. He feels so tired. He’d been looking forward to this day, nervous though he’d been, for over a month. Now, it’s been ruined. No matter what the outcome of the competition, the pride in his performance is soured by this miserable finale to it. Victor’s delight in seeing him dance had been tainted by the trespass into their relationship. Victor’s told him before that _of course people want you, Yuuri_ so many times, like Yuuri was dense for not being aware; now his skin crawls at the thought of so many people having designs on him. How could anyone think he would be swayed from Victor?

“Hey,” Victor interrupts, taking his hand gently. Yuuri sways into him at the prompt and presses his face into Victor’s chest. “I’ll go with you. I’ll be quiet and let you be the responsible coach.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri mumbles.

 

Alexi’s sister, Yanna, has neon red hair. She’s small and awkward but nice. She sees them and elbows her brother before beating a hasty retreat, doing a very bad job of pretending to take a phone call. Victor snorts and says as much to Yuuri who can’t respond. The side of Alexi’s face is dark red; it’ll probably bruise. Behind Yuuri’s shoulder, where he can’t see, Victor waves with his offending hand with his bright public-appearance smile.

Now that he’s found Alexi, Yuuri wishes they hadn’t been able to. He just wants to go home. The desire overwhelms him and he stumbles to a stop, making Victor knock into him. Alexi’s waiting, head low, somewhere between cowed and ready to run.

“Nevermind,” Yuuri blurts. He turns sharply and shoves his way back from where he came. “Nope.”

“Nope?” Victor calls after him, baffled. “Nope?”

“Nope!”

“Nope!” Victor repeats, this time at Alexi, before he lopes after Yuuri.

Yuuri does it over text because he lives in the 21st century. If he didn’t, he’d do via letter or carrier pigeon.

He types out a monstrous message in Russian, letting Victor do the typing as he dictates. He wants there to be no issue of translation: _You’re still in my classes and I believe in you as a dancer but I don’t know how to see your character. You have been in my home with me and Victor, and hurt both of us. I don’t know what to think. Your time in my class will be nothing but professional. What happened will not be shared with our peers. Should we win, the same strict professionalism applies to any work we undertake with BIBI._

Victor sends it for him. Alexi replies almost instantly with ‘Yes. Anything. I’m so sorry.’ Yuuri doesn’t respond. Victor finds the seat marked Katsuki in the front performer rows of the auditorium and pulls Yuuri into his lap. They’re not the only couple.

Yuuri only got to see the very first routines from a proper angle, so he doesn’t have much of an opinion. Victor of course thinks Yuuri did the best but he tries to fill Yuuri in on the others, showing him his snapchat and finding videos on the hashtag on instagram of the competition. Alexi takes his seat beside them at the very last moment ebfore the results come in. They start at fifth place, naming the groups, counting down to first place. Second place gets a consolatory cash prize. Yuuri wouldn’t mind second place. But as 5th, 4th, 3rd and 2nd get listed off to the sound of applause, he has disblieiving freeze in his chest of aniticpation. Victor squeezes him around the middle, whispering “I knew you’d win.”

 

Phchit screams into his ear for the first two minutes of the phone call they share the next day. Phichit’s in Japan, so he’s ahead of them. It’s late for him, but he’s up late working on a website. He gushes over the video he saw and then screams wildly when Yuuri tells him about Alexi. Yuuri sends him a screencap of the text he’d sent to alexi and Phichit sucks his teeth and applauds Yuuri’s maturity. He’s very in favor of Victor slapping Alexi.

“Phi?” Yuuri asks quietly when they’ve stopped roaring in ugly laughter. Victor’s soaking in a salt bath. Yuuri glances at the bedroom door anyway from his spot on the couch. “You don’t have secret desire for me do you?”

“I’m not going to become your lover and destroy your marriage with Victor,” Phichit says, tone perplexed, “if that’s what you’re asking. But if you’re asking if our marriage pact if we’re still single at forty and disappointing our parents is still a go-go, then yes.”

Yuuri laughs. “Sorry. I needed to ask. Sorry.” His chest tightens. “Hey, Phi?”

“Hey, Yuuri?” Phichit teases.

“Are you still coming to Worlds?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it!”

“Okay…okay…great. I miss you. Victor does too; he’d say it but he’s in the bath.”

“Awwww, I miss you both too!”

 

 

Victor takes gold at Worlds. Gold at the Grand Prix, gold at Russian Nationals, gold at Worlds. He’s on top of the world. His smile blinds the audience all the way from the podium. He’s soundly the best male singles competitive skater of the year, and the triple-win sets its own record. The day is a barrage of commotion and energy. Yuuri and Phichit dick around; Yuuri’s trying to keep a low profile until Victor needs him. They take Makka for a walk and put her in her support vest; it doesn’t have the same legal authority as a service dog but it stops crowds from petting her. Seung-gil didn’t qualify for Worlds but he’s there, his aura radiating discomfort. Phichit cons him into getting food with them. Yuuri’s iscomforted by him until he realized that Seung-gil doesn’t need Yuuri to try to make shitty small talk and then he’s _great_ to be around.

“What’s Victor’s exhibition skate?” Seung-gil asks abruptly. Yuuri looks up from his phone and shrugs.

“He said it’s a surprise.”

“Hm.”

Yuuri’s phone vibrates finally with the delivery message. “The boquet is here.” He pushes out of his seat and grabs everyone’s empty cups. Phichit waves him on. Blue roses. Hard to find but worth it.

 

Victor slides out onto the ice in a high ponytail with a flirty strip of hair framing one side, tight black pants, and a dusty pink crop top. He waves to his adoring fans and blows kisses. Yuuri had been told to stand where the coaches usually stand. His stance is easy, arms down at his sides, head bowed. His costume doesn’t suggest anything serious, so Yuuri’s waiting for the pop of explosion.

“This is gold medalist Victor Nikiforov performing to “Greedy” by Ariana Grande.”

It comes.

“Greedy! Whoo! You know that I’m greedy for love!”

Victor throws his head back, arms taught down by side as he lip syncs, or might very well being singing. At the start of the verse, Victor snaps to and points directly at Yuuri, grinning. “Boy, you give me feelings never felt before!”

He takes off, his whole body flirtation and victory. He blows a kiss at Yuuri as he passes. It’s sexy and funny and playful. Victor flips his ponytail and is _definitely_ singing. Every time he passes by Yuuri, he throws winks and kisses and waves. It’s spin-heavy, sit spins and camel spins and an unprecedented amount of shimmy-shimmy shakes of his hips. This is a man in love. A man on top of the world. A man who wants the whole damn world to know that he’s coming tonight. It’s a message to everyone watching: Yuuri’s his.

 

**Russia’s Darling Wins Again**

**Victor Nikiforov's exhibiton skate is all about getting laid  
**

**Ariana’s Biggest Fans are Two Boyfriend Performers**

**BIBI's newest best dancer is Japanese migrant Katsuki Yuuri**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER: alexi kisses yuuri thinking yuuri wants him. yuuri DOES NOT. it stops after one kiss. victor slaps alexi once. (very mild reaction imo). 
> 
> OMG THO THANK YOU FOR READING. i worked hard. sorry the screenshot edits of the text convos r a little meh. theyre a pain...hence why i lazied out on the one from yuuri to alexi.  
> alexi isn't evil but his moral character leaves one disappointed. it's a mistake he will never repeat in his life. 
> 
> also. i really want to write a random little side snippet of yuuri victor phichit and chris having a big kissing pile at Worlds. maybe its just cause ive done stuff like that with couples and single people alike so for me its like, yeah... but i totally see those four doing that. victor def has an exhibition kink if it isnt obvious and once yuuri thinks it over, he'd think it was kinda cute and hot. he doesn't get jealous so much as insecure and being in a loving and supportive group like that would make him happy. phichit thinks everyone is adorbz and that kissing is nice and same with chris altho...chris has a bit of a crush because who doesn't have a crush on phichit. 
> 
> phichit thinks seung-gil is hilarious and seung-gil is both confused and pleased by this even tho he doesn't get why phichit and yuuri seem to like him. 
> 
>  
> 
> also also also: the next and final chapter finally have Yuri Plisetsky in it! it'll be feel good and mushy probably.


	6. INTERLUDE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss pile at Worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as mentioned, yuuri, victor, chris, and phichit all make out. this has no plot and if ur not into it, totally skip. 
> 
> there's brief talk of suicidal thoughts in a convo between chris and victor.
> 
>  
> 
> Also look at this NSFW fanart of Victor in the crop too ;) ❤️❤️❤️!!!! http://neko-bako.tumblr.com/post/163168043031/

* * *

 

There needs to be a guide book on this, Yuuri decides when he asks Phichit if he wants to kiss Victor. Because Phichit gets this twitchy suspicious look that puts terror in Yuuri’s heart.

“I know I said that’d I’d sleep with him when we first met—“ Phichit says slowly, a little hurt, like he thinks Yuuri is testing him.

Stupid stupid stupid. Yuuri waves his hands frantically, apologetically. “No. No. Not like that I meant do you want to kiss him with me?”

Phichit’s suspicious twitch transforms into a slow cat-like blink. “Yuuri. _Yuuri_ ,” he grabs Yuuri by the shoulders and holds him close, their noses touching. Phichit smells like something overpriced and oversugared from Starbucks. “Are you asking me to be in a threesome?”

“I’m trying,” Yuuri winces. “Oh my god – I’m sorry, Phi. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh. My. God.” Phichit grabs hold of Yuuri’s cheeks next and squishes them together. His eyes are huge and his grin disbelieving. “Oh my god!”

“Is that a yes or are you going to make fun of me on twitter?” Yuuri grumbles through his puckered lips.

“Whose idea is this? You two are – wow – wow – I’m blessed.” Phichit laughs and holds a hand to his heart. “If nineteen year old me could have known I’d be in a threesome with Katsuki Yuuri and his weird white boyfriend – wow. _Hey,_ will Victor wear his collar?”

Well. That’s a resounding yes.

“We were thinking a foursome, actually?” Yuuri squeaks out. Phichit’s eyes close, once, slowly, and his face sharpens into a too-keen look when he opens them.

“Does this involve a familiar blond with bedroom eyes.”

“It does.”

“I’m in.”

\--

 

After everything, kissing their best friends on a king sized bed in the hotel room the night of the World Championship banquet might not make sense, but Yuuri’s accepted the bizarro-world element of his life. Kissing his best friend and Victor’s best friend and Victor at the same time isn’t even on his list of the unexpected. (Dirty lie: it is.)

Victor isn’t good at subtly. It’s not part of his character. If he’s sad, he mopes in his pajamas. If he’s angry, Yuuri can see the steam. If he’s out of his mind, he’s dressed to the nines and running on no sleep. If he’s horny, he points to his dick and pouts. If he thinks that Phichit is cute and wants to have Phichit be in the room while he touches Yuuri, he fucking does it in Yuuri’s sister’s childhood bedroom. So once Victor really had it in his mind to do this, he told Yuuri.

There’s a lot of ways to take something like that. A feeling of inadequacy and insecurity. Anger at the suggestion. A surge of jealousy. But Yuuri knows what Victor likes. Victor liked being passed around like a party toy when he was nineteen. Yuuri knows this. This isn’t out of bounds for him.

“It’s not that _I_ want to kiss them, it’s that I want _us_ to kiss them. It’s _us_ inviting our closest friends to _enjoy_ us. And, I think it would be sexy. We are all four so beautiful. Chris and I would love to put on a show for you and Phichit.”

And then, after a more thorough conversation, Victor admitted that he liked the idea of controlling who kissed Yuuri, being able to repair that someone out of bounds had kissed Yuuri by inviting people he trusted to kiss them both. That the idea of someone taking Yuuri away from him made his blood pound and made him feel wild and he wants it to happen in a place where he knows it isn’t really happening. Ad he’d like to see Yuuri kiss people that Victor likes, that he knows will kiss Yuuri nicely. Yuuri, surprisingly, thought that made perfect sense. It scared him a little, but it would be a sort of flooding experience for his insecurity and latent guilt about Alexi.

\--

 

Victor had said they couldn’t all have fun together until Chris came clean about wanting to have a particular and specific fun with Phichit. _“Love, trust, and honesty, Chris. This is a healing foursome.”_ Victor sounded like a spa attendant, as far as Chris was concerned, but then _Yuuri_ had looked at Chris on the first day of Worlds with his imperious amber gaze, his pout so expectant, and Chris caved.

He found Phichit and waited out Phichit’s business call, listening to rapid-fire Thai, Phichit’s voice that of another man’s, a little more powerful if only because Chris had no clue what was being said, only that Phichit pulled out _another_ phone and texted during the call, must have come up with some alternative offer, bargained like a champ, and then hung up with a satisfied smile.

“What’s up?” Phichit asked him once he finished his impromptu business arrangement. Chris isn’t Victor. He isn’t a lovesick puppy. But he does think Phichit is beautiful, cool, and _trustworthy_. That’s the odd little niggle in the back of his mind. This is Yuuri’s best friend. Yuuri, who suddenly is a subject too well-learned in Chris’s life because Victor never shuts up about Yuuri.

 Victor used to not shut up about whatever bizarre skate program he was concocting, going on entire thesis dissertations about some play or opera or historical moment that “compelled” him. He still does that; listening to him timidly – and that’s new – talk about how easy it might be to die, how awfully easy it would be, Chris, do you realize, how silent he would be if he killed himself in the bathtub and how brief and loud the world would be as it remembered him until it didn’t – Chris has cried listening to him, confused and terrified, as Victor just kept talking about it until Chris has screamed at him and then victor had sounded so surprised “oh, oh, Chris, it is okay. I won’t. I won’t. I think about it, but it’s okay. I promise. Do you want to talk to Yuuri about it?”

Chris had never been more grateful for Yuuri as Yuuri explained Victor’s health, assured Chris that he was okay, taking care of himself, that he had people taking care of him. That, although it hurt to hear Victor talk like that, that it was better to let him talk; that the skating routine was a way of navigating his thoughts.

Victor came back on the line when Chris asked for him.

“I won’t do anything, Chris. It would kill Yuuri.”

“Forget Yuuri; it would kill _you_ , you stupid bastard.”

The next time he’d seen Victor in person, Victor was as smiling and beautiful as ever, a dumb bunny of boundless energy and delight. He’d had to remind himself that his friend had to weigh his life sometimes, consider if it was worth it.

Again, Yuuri was a relief. Victor was sweet-talking his way into trying _every single flavor of ice cream_ that the parlor produced (before deciding on the nonfat tart Greek yogurt flavor, as they all knew he would) and Chris was staring at him, trying to hold onto the boy at sixteen that threw him a bouquet and wished him the best, that became his dear friend, his inspiration, a sometimes lover that made him laugh and feel good and awed – hurting to reimagine him.

Yuuri touched him, then, his hand, drawing Chris’s attention unobtrusively. “He’s okay.”

That’s all Yuuri had said, and Chris believed him. He fell a little in love with Yuuri, seeing how he looked at Victor, how he loved him. He imagined he felt how Victor must have felt in those early days in Japan, safe and dazed by this quiet, unassuming man.

And then _Phichit_.

 _What’s up?_ He asked.

Chris laughed and slid his hands into his pockets, projecting an air of nonchalance. “Would you like to be my date to the banquet, Phichit?”

Phichit grinned his mega-watt grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The whole night of the banquet was a delicious tease. He and Phichit warmed up to each other even further, teasing Yuuri every time Victor was out of ear shot. They kept Yuuri constantly blushing and side-eying them, but he seemed to like it. Chris didn’t expect them to extend this invitation so soon after the Alexi debacle; he thought Victor would be too ornery to share but instead it only spurred the couple to want to solidify the lines of trust they had with each other and their closest friends. Chris knew Victor was a slut and loved to show off; Phichit did too, filling Chris in on Victor’s behavior when Yuuri first gave him his collar.

 

Phichit has his own hotel room, so he meets Chris outside of his because it’s on the same floor as Victor and Yuuri’s. Phichit’s wearing a soft wrap dress, the white setting off the dark glow of his skin. It’s bold and for their night’s activities, definitely a statement inviting everyone to touch him. Chris grins as Phichit catches sight of Chris waiting outside his own door and catwalks the rest of the way to Chris, sashaying, hand on his hip. His looks makes Chris’s sweatpants and tshirt seem childish by comparison.

“You like?” Phichit teases, closing in on Chris. He might be small, but he’s fierce, and the creep of his fingers up Chris’s chest are only promise of that. It would be bad to fall in love with him. Chris has no doubt that there are people around the world pining after Phichit.  

“I do.”

Phichit leaves his face tilted up to Chris, eyes glinting, and Chris ducks down to kiss him, tasting the coconut lip balm he’s been wearing all night. Phichit’s perfume is coconut too, not tropical but mild and sweet. It’s just a kiss, but Phichit opens his mouth and then Chris is pressing him into the wall, flattening their bodies together.

“Wow,” Phichit laughs, sliding his hands down Chris’s tight body. “You’re excitable.”

“It’s one of my best attributes,” Chris purrs, kissing Phichit’s neck. He relents at the slight push and takes Phichit’s offered hand as they make their way down the hall to their destination. Another skater waves at them Chris is sure something about this tryst will make it to the gossip mill. He and Victor have been known to have their histories already.

“I used to have the biggest crush on Yuuri,” Phichit confides in a low casual tone. “I’m nervous.”

Chris glances at him. “Do you want to do this?” _love, trust, honesty!_

“Totally,” Phichit says immediately. “I’m –,” there’s the slightest pause, the slightest narrowing of his eyes in thought “calibrating. Yuuri and I fooled around but we were always drunk and it was a million years ago.”

“That’s hot,” Chris says, right as the door opens. Phichit throws a wink of his shoulder at him, absolutely perfect.

“What’s hot?” Yuuri asks, holding the door wide for them. Phichit swings in, arm around Yuuri’s waist, and plants a big kiss on his cheek.

“Us kissing,” Phichit informs jubilantly. “Where’s your puppy?”

“Exfoliating his lips,” Yuuri answers without a hint of jest, tipping his head towards the bathroom. Phichit touches his own lips and mutters something unintelligible. Chris slips into the room and grabs Yuuri’s ass, kissing his cheek. Yuuri jumps and it’s adorable.

“We’re all so excited, Yuuri. Victor! Stop primping and get out here or I’ll kiss Yuuri without you!”

Yuuri, the devious man, shimmies out of Chris’s lingering grope and hugs Phichit. It’s earnest and sweet and Phichit melts into Yuuri and Chris is left wanting to cover them in kisses. It’s a fool-proof battle plan. Yuuri and Phichit are unstoppable. When Victor opens the bathroom door, smelling like roses, Yuuri and Phichit lift their heads in tandem from where they’d been resting on each other’s shoulders and blink their dark eyes at him, smile their round-faced smiles. Victor clutches at his heart, gasping audibly, and Chris figures out right then that both of them probably aren’t prepared for this.

“Yuuri! You’re so cute! Phichit! Oh my god. I love you both in different but meaningful ways!”

Victor envelops his basically-fiancé and fiancé’s-best-friend into a hug with his freakishly long arms. Phichit squirms until he can poke his face out from the mess of limbs and he just _smirks_ at Chris and rolls his eyes, so pleased and amused as Victor peppers both sets of black hair with kisses. Chris throws his head back and laughs.

Everything about Victor and his life is unorthodox, and maybe Chris is still going to worry, but right now, he’s pretty sure that everything is okay.

\--

 

“Okay!” Victor claps his hands. He volts off the bed and over to the desk where he has his phone charging. "I’m thinking a little music, something—“

“Jazz. Put on jazz, Victor, nothing big band,” Chris interrupts, tone all-knowing. Victor clicks his tongue, displeased at being overturned in his own hotel room, at his own foursome, but he finds something smooth and ambient. Chris hums and creeps forward to touch Yuuri’s knee, his grin catlike.

“So, Yuuri, here we are,” Chris purrs.

“Yup,” Yuuri laughs, blushing fiercely and looking over to Victor who’s still holding his phone but watching Chris advance on Yuuri with an intrigued expression. Over Chris’s shoulder, Phichit has a similar look but once he sees Yuuri looking his way, he grins; his face has darkened, especially his nose. That’s a good sign.

 Chris crawls a little closer, hands coming down on Yuuri’s knees, and he gives some soon-to-be patented bedroom eyes. Yuuri blows a puff of air at his face and snickers at Chris’s scrunched nose. “Victor gets to kiss me first.”

“Ah, cheri, you should have said immediately,” Chris pouts.

“Yuuri likes to tease,” Victor explains, pushing Chris back hard enough that he flops onto the bed, balance undone. Victor slides into Yuuri’s lap and straddles him. He needs to be as close to Yuuri as possible to begin this; he has to be with Yuuri first; they have to see him and Yuuri kiss first. That’s the most important part. He needs people to see them together. The thought heats him and soothes him.

They struggle to turn sideways so Phichit and Chris have a profile view of them. “You will learn soon enough, Christophe,” Victor says wisely.

Phichit wraps his arms around Chris and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “I call next kiss with Yuuri!”

“So the Yuuri-kiss economy is booming once more,” Chris jokes. He leans forward, Phichit’s weight at his back. Yuuri eyes them both, hands frozen on Victor’s hips. Victor watches him lose focus on _them_ , sees the trepidation stall Yuuri out. That won’t do. He can’t have that. It’s funny, how something as simple as kissing becomes the wildest thing they’ve done in bed simply by the addition of their two closest friends. Playing with Yuuri is a constant reinvention.

“Yuuri,” Victor clips, cutting through everything. Yuuri practically jerks to attention, breath seizing in his throat. His eyes are huge, not dark with lust just huge, white showing all around. It was Victor’s idea, Victor’s kink; Yuuri liked the idea plenty but he’s never had any of his desires exposed to people outside of his partner.

“Just me, Yuuri,” Victor whispers, bringing a hand up to cup Yuuri’s cheek, turn his face in towards him so Yuuri can’t see their friends. Yuuri closes his eyes, wrinkles puckered between his brows. Victor hums and switches to Russian; Chris’s Russian consists of swear words, pick-up lines, and how to order coffee. _“Do you still want to do this?”_

 _“Da,”_ Yuuri puffs, immediate and soft. Okay. He’s still on board. _“Sorry. I’m nervous.”_

_“It’s okay. Do you want to pause?”_

_“No. Help me, Vitya.”_ Yuuri opens his eyes, face still adorably scrunches, his fat bottom lip pushed out. Victor giggles at the expression. It’s Yuuri’s grumpy face! It only gets grumpier with Victor’s laughter. _“Puppy_ ,” Yuuri whines, pinching Victor’s bottom.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll help,” Victor promises. He makes the first move, easing them into the show. His slides his hand from Yuuri’s cheek to his neck so Phichit and Chris can see when his lips meet Yuuri’s. They kiss in public, here and there. Yuuri isn’t big on PDA but he likes to kiss Victor every once in a while when there’s a crowd. Victor loves it and would kiss him all the time if he could.

Under the press of Victor’s lips, Yuuri relaxes. He huffs out a loud breath that everyone hears then droops, forcing himself to relax. His hands wind around Victor more naturally and when Victor presses with another kiss, Yuuri responds finally, opening his mouth and drawing Victor in with his hands and his lips. He wants Yuuri to forget that they’re being watched so Yuuri can find his sexual center, but Victor can’t and doesn’t want to forget because he wants to look over and see Phichit and Chris. He wants to watch them watch _them_. But they have the empathy to sense Yuuri’s need for a moment to relax and stay quiet and unmoving, glued together, touching each other quietly on the knee and the back, hands finding hands to tangle fingers, trading Vulcan kisses.

Yuuri, ever surprisingly, slips his tongue into Victor’s mouth to tease a maze into his hard palette, up behind his teeth. Victor shakes and clenches his thighs round Yuuri, feeling the constant kisses, relishing Yuuri’s hands that have found their way under his shirt. He draws back a little to run his nose along Yuuri’s and finds his eyes; they’re blown now, bright and smiling at the corners. Victor grins lazily and kisses him again, brief and pleased.

“Good?” Victor whispers. Yuuri nods and glances over at their friends, bashful but, not. Bashful but proud.

“Hi,” Yuuri mumbles, fidgeting underneath Victor.

“Yuuri!” Phichit squeals. “That was so sexy.”

“Oh god,” Yuuri mumbles again, burying his face into Victor’s chest. Victor laughs and coos petting his hair. “This is embarrassing.”

He says that, but Victor can feel the beginning of his erection, the happy throb under his ass. _Mhmmm._

“No, this is fantastic,” Chris corrects. “I think you two should watch me and Phichit kiss.”

“Oh?” Phichit teases, leaning again Chris and batting his eyelashes, thick with mascara, his eyes all taunt under their black eyeliner. Chris loses his train of thought, staring opening at Phichit with a dumbstruck face of _my god he’s beautiful_ , so obvious that Yuuri and Victor grin at each other. Instead of answering, Chris surges towards Phichit, this thing between them too new for slowness, Chris too young to hold back.

It’s nothing like Yuuri and Victor’s slow kiss of familiarity. Chris kisses Phichit hard and Phichit bites into him; they topple over onto the bed, Chris pinning Phichit’s small body with his own, hands in each other’s hair. Victor admires their veracity, remembering his own clumsy, toothy kisses with Chris. Next to his ear, Yuuri gasps. He squeezes Victor close and kisses his neck like he’s steadying himself, just a push of the lips and a full face rub into Victor’s throat but his eyes are fixed on his best friend getting tongue-fucked.

Phichit moans loudly and bucks up against Chris, hands grabbing Chris’s ass. It’s quickly degenerating, the two of them pent up; Chris, despite his behavior, abstains from sex leading up to competition and he’s been wanting Phichit since he first met him last year. And Phichit? He knows when he’s adored.

“Wow,” Victor whistles. “Are you two about to do it?” he chides.

Chris groans and kisses Phichit’s adam’s apple, earning another breathy gasp. Phichit grins upside-down at Yuuri, flushed face antagonizing Yuuri’s own confused want for his friend.

“You’re the one who danced around like a slut tonight and wanted to come on the ice,” Chris taunts. As opposed to Chris for once.

“I already came,” Victor sniffs. He sticks his tongue out. “Do you think after that my Yuuri would not take care of me? He always sucks me after a performance.”

Yuuri sighs heavily. “Please, tell them everything,” he says sarcastically.

“Okay! So first he drug me off and I blew him because I made him hard and he said that if I want everyone to know that I’m getting laid then next time I wear mesh he will leave me bruised and scratched for everyone to see—“

“Puppy!”

“And after I sucked my masters big fat cock—“ Victor yelps when Yuuri spanks his ass, _hard_ , but he persists, laughing, “he sucked mine and told me that if I want everyone to know that I’m going to have sex tonight that maybe he should let Phichit and Chris do whatever they want to – to me!”

Yuuri finally wrestles Victor down into the bed, face beet red. Victor keeps up his defiant laughter, bucking against Yuuri’s ass, delighted. Victor’s reclaimed all the attention, that’s for sure. Chris and Phichit are gaping open-mouthed at them as Yuuri pulls Victor into an arch-backed kneel, Victor’s long hair in his hand like a rope, his neck a taut line.

“Puppy, don’t be so obvious about wanting to be in trouble,” Yuuri warns him, tone low and unrecognizable to Phichit and Chris. But to Victor, this is a voice he loves. Yuuri has his wrists crossed over and held in his grip; Victor could pull away, Yuuri’s hands aren’t big enough to hold him at this angle with much security, but his hair is another thing. And he loves it.

No, this won’t be like the Olympics. This won’t be Raoul and half the hockey team fucking him with a disregard that Victor, at the time, had lusted after. This is different, better; Yuuri’s mindful and precise. He stretches Victor into a curve, draws him up until Victor’s bent, his hips thrust out, his erection displayed proudly through his sweatpants, his nipples pert and tight beneath his thin shirt that’s pulled across the muscle of his torso. At this angle, Yuuri can look down into his eyes, see Victor’s wicked glow.

“Phi, Chris,” Yuuri says in his commanding tone; he’s not loud or rough, just sure of himself, confident. Victor groans simply at the sound of him and gives more of his weight to Yuuri in permission to to do as he likes. Yuuri loosens his hold on Victor’s hair, a release from the pain, a silent gesture of praise, before he tightens it again twice as hard. A reminder. “Would you two be okay if Victor _did_ come during this?”

Oh! That sounds...nice? Victor squints his eyes suspiciously at Yuuri, but Yuuri is looking at their friends.

“I know we said it was just kissing but—“

“I have no problem,” Chris says first. Victor tries to look at him but the movement makes Yuuri pull him back into place.

“How is he coming?” Phichit asks, analytical.

Victor can see the underside of Yuuri’s smirk.

“He’s so easy, sometimes. He’ll come in his pants if no one stops him, just from kissing and grinding. It’ll be easier for us if we let it happen. If everyone is okay with that? I know it’s not…what we said. When we invited you to join us.”

His persona falters as the potential for anyone’s unease, but their friends quickly make exclamations of approval that make Victor’s cock twitch noticeably for all to see. Yuuri sits Victor up and runs a hand up his spine.

“How does that sound, Vicchan?” Yuuri asks gently, fingers combing through his hair.

“Sounds fun,” Victor says with a grin and a kiss. It’s true, too. Yuuri isn’t being mean. Victor had mentioned that he was worried he’d come in the middle and make it weird, or have to stop because he loves kissing so much, and with all those hands and lips touching him…leave it to Yuuri to find the solution.

“Okay,” Yuuri smiles, kissing him back. “Do you want to watch me kiss Phichit?”

“Yes,” Chris chimes. Phichit scoffs but he scoots closer to Yuuri, smiling shyly at his best friend. Yuuri matches it and now he’s Yuuri again, all softness, all slow exploration.

Victor whines, somewhere between wanting to see and not wanting it to happen because Yuuri is going to kiss someone else but _Yuuri is going to kiss someone else, kiss Phichit_ , and Victor knows that it will be sweet and beautiful to watch and hot and “yes,” he says, giving the permission Yuuri would have waited a hundred years before.

Yuuri and Phichit make eye contact, looking away from Victor – they’d both been waiting. They look at each other and laugh, bite their lips, unintentionally mirroring each other’s behavior. They notice and laugh again and finally bump closer, the shyest of kisses, just a graze of their dusk-rose lips. They look like kittens nosing each other, rather than the fierce men Victor knows them to be; they’ve kissed before, back when they were, _fuck,_ younger than he and Chris are now; drunken kisses, sloppy college kisses. This now is different, an aged appreciation. It’s sort of wonderful, watching Yuuri kiss Phichit, seeing Yuuri from this new angle. And Phichit, Victor owes him so many thanks for helping Yuuri realize his feelings for Victor.

“Hey, Yuu-yuu,” Phichit giggles when they pull apart after only a second. Yuuri snorts, looking down and up again, a patent Yuuri move of epic heart-wrenching proportions. Victor clutches Chris’s hands to see it pulled on an innocent civilian like that, that slow flutter of eyelashes, his beautiful dark eyes shining like the moon on the sea.

“Hey, Phi,” Yuuri murmurs. He looks over at Victor, sees Victor’s rapt attention, and smiles before kissing Phichit again, this time deeper. He holds Phichit by the back of the neck and draws him in and Phichit, so vocal, moans and goes, opening his mouth. How many secrets have they shared through the years? They kiss like they know exactly what the other likes. Phichit rubs Yuuri’s sides and Yuuri keeps a firm hold on the base of Phichit’s neck and they let the kiss grow wet and deep until Phichit knocks Yuuri down and sits on him, grinning.

“I win.”

“Didn’t know we were playing to win,” Yuuri huffs, tickling his hands over Phichit’s thighs.

“Yuuri!” Victor slips in to kiss Yuuri’s cheek and then puckers his lips at Phichit, who after a glance at Yuuri, leans down and pecks Victor on the mouth. “That looked so nice.”

“I’m in love with that kiss,” Chris sighs, laying down on top of Victor. He kisses Victor’s cheek and then Yuuri’s cheek, and then, boldly, turns Yuuri’s face towards him and kisses Yuuri as he does when they greet. When Victor says nothing and Yuuri keeps his lips there, he deepens the kiss and tastes Phichit’s coconut balm on Yuuri’s lips. “So sweet.”

After that, the night dissolves into kisses. They take turns kissing each other and watching until everyone tastes the same. Sometimes they forget to watch the other couple and they pair off, mouths on mouths, mouths on necks, hands everywhere. Yuuri and Victor trap Phichit and Chris between them and hold hands around their friends, hugging everyone together. All three of them gang up on Chris who made the bold and stupid statement that he is the best kisser and then they kiss him breathless, relentless, until Chris is a puddle in the bed and needs a begging for water.

Poor Victor suffers a similar fate. Because he knows he’s allowed to come, he’s very aware of it. As the night passes and everyone gets turned on and kisses are lost amongst grinding hips and hands _everywhere_ , Victor gets closer and closer to the edge. But because everyone knows he’s allowed to come, they find it funny to make sure he doesn’t. Whenever he starts gasping and moaning or pushing into someone’s thigh, he gets dragged off that person and held down and kissed to the edge of his life without any other contact. Chris in particular is the culprit, teasing Victor in French with merciless jabs until they’re fighting on the edge of the bed, rolling right off onto the floor and kissing there as Phichit and Yuuri throw pillows at them.

Victor finally comes sitting in Yuuri’s lap, back to chest, his legs hooked and spread over Yuuri’s legs, Yuuri’s hand rubbing him through his pants, while Phichit and Chris kiss his lips and his neck and play with his nipples. It’s perfect torture; he comes hard, filling his sweats in a wet mess, embarrassed and loving the embarrassment, feeling hot and weak for it as Yuuri squeeze him through it and jerks his cock with the fabric of his pants, spreading the stickiness.

He’s not wearing his collar, so when Yuuri wraps a tender hand around his neck, Victor sighs with full-bodied relief at the pressure. Yuuri kisses his ears softly and praises him, hugs him.

Then Phichit, leaving behind a hicky on Victor’s neck, sits back and _looks_ at him, looks at the dark stain in his crotch, the soft outline of his spent cock and then he slides his eyes away from Victor’s own bleary gaze and asks Yuuri, “can I pet your puppy?” so politely, so distantly, that Victor moans a ragged approval.

“Sure, Phi!” Yuuri chirps, hand still locked around Victor’s neck, thumb over his racing pulse. Victor feels drugged and he whimpers when Phichit lays a timid hand on him, right over where he came in his pants.

“Cute,” Phichit admires, tracing a finger firmly over the shape of him. Victor watches him, eyes watering, as Phichit kneads his hand into him, pressing down and _rubbing_ so that Victor squirms. “He came a lot.”

“Fuck,” Chris effuses from beside him. Oh god, Victor could die being watched like this. Fuck, he wants to be fucked by all of them, with Yuuri’s hand on his neck. “Look at you.”

Phichit feels like an extension of Yuuri. He absolutely is. Victor would let Phichit do whatever he wanted if Yuuri wanted it, if Yuuri sat there and watched Victor take whatever he was given. But Chris is _his_ , and Chris is – is looking at Yuuri, at _his Yuuri_. He’s looking at Yuuri thinking all the things Yuuri could do to him, could reduce him to, could make him feel. He’s seeing Victor, all of Victor’s gold medals and talent and power turned to a puppy who came all over himself and is being played with and wishing it were himself, if just for a night.

Pride surges through Victor. Glee, joy. That’s right. Yuuri is amazing and _his_. Victor let them taste Yuuri and they can’t have anymore of him.

“Isn’t he the best master?” Victor chokes out. Yuuri isn’t even aware that Chris is looking at him because Yuuri is too busy looking down at Victor, at Victor’s body, at Phichit stroking Victor’s thighs. But now, at that, Yuuri noses Victor’s temple and hums.

“What, Puppy?” he asks sweetly, rubbing Victor’s stomach.

“Chris wants you,” Victor grins. Chris shakes his head, though, dispelling Victor’s sureness.

“No,” his friend says, smiling softly. He reaches over and ruffles Yuuri’s hair, completely out of place, then Victor’s. “I’ll find my own Yuuri. He’s yours.”

And it’s exactly what Victor needed to hear, he didn’t even realize until after Chris says it.

“You freaky, kinky bastards. The both of you,” Chris tacks on. Phichit laughs from between Victor’s legs and sits back, wiping his hands on the bed sheet.

“Seriously,” he agrees. “You two are something else.”

Yuuri grumbles but isn’t upset because he closes his legs, and effectively Victor’s, and hugs Victor tight to his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Uhm. That’s us,” he bumbles out.

Victor laughs, sure if he doesn’t that he’ll burst into confused tears. His whole body is tingling. He twists enough to cram his face in under Yuuri’s jaw. “I’m tired,” he says bluntly. Yuuri nods slightly.

“I need to—,” Phichit lost his dress a long time ago and he’s got his own wet spot of a different kind in his underwear.

“Let me take care of you, Phichit,” Chris offers gallantly. He’s palming himself.

“Uhm,” Yuuri interrupts cautiously. He glances at Victor, then at them, then at Victor, then at them. “Does everyone want to sleep together?”

“Oooh,” Victor agrees. “We could do that.”

“Okay,” Phichit says, “but after me and Chris come because, Yuuri, no joke, no lie, I’m going to die.”

“Okay!” Yuuri nods sharply, chin bumping into Victor’s head. Phichit and Chris getting each other off in front of him might be his limit. “Uhm. Vicchan and I will go shower.”

“Ugh,” Victor whines. “Moving? You’re making me move, Yuuri? After all I’ve scarified? You want me to move?”

“Come on, Drama,” Yuuri tsks, pushing him up and dragging him off to the bathroom. Victor pretends to pout until Yuuri kisses him, slow and steady under the stream of water.

“That was a good first year anniversary,” Victor concludes.

Yuuri’s eyes fly wide open. “Oh! Oh my god,” Yuuri gasps, hands over his mouth. “Was it really?”

Victor cackles, aghast and amused. “Yuuri! This is when we agreed to really date! Last year at Worlds!”

“But! But we started back in Japan! I started counting the last day in Hasetsu! Why do you think I made you that big dinner?”

Victor gapes. “But you never said it was for our anniversary!”

“I thought you forgot and didn’t want you to feel bad. I don’t know. Oh my god.” Yuuri drops his head against Victor’s collarbone. “We suck.”

“Oops. Oh well! It was a party. The more the merrier. We will celebrate this summer,” Victor reasons diplomatically, wanting to quickly dismiss Yuuri’s worries. “And then we will pick an official date.”

Chris and Phichit shower together after them while Yuuri and Victor fix the bed. It’s a cramped fit with everyone in it, but no one is shy about cuddling. Victor and Chris pass out almost immediately once they’re down, exhausted from the skate, while Phichit and Yuuri, on either side of the cuddling skates, send each other memes on across three different forms of social media.


	7. JJ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri Plisetsky finds out Victor isn't perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long this took me. My life has been chaotic.  
> special thanks to Pushpullds for looking at the first 12 pages and telling me it made sense. bless.
> 
> There's mental health stuff, brief mention of chronic illness, slight misuse of medication following an off-screen panic attack, and some vague emotional/psychological manipulation from Lilia @ Victor. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading this story. It was supposed to be a quick cute 5+1 and instead i gave you another giant giant fic. I've deeply appreciated all of your feedback and dedication as readers. This isn't a crowd-pleaser story by any means, so the fact that so many people are finding things within it that resonate with them is all I can wish for as a writer. i never know how to finish a story, so i can only hope that this satisfies you in some way. i know i said it wouldn't be angsty, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ just how life goes i guess.

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky becomes aware of Victor Nikiforov’s extravagant existence when he is only eight years old. Victor’s skating his Junior Championships free skate, the Lilac Fairy. He is resplendent. His mother, Anna, has the channel _taped_ in place, old TV firmly fixed to cover the competition. She skated once, years and years ago. She tells her son “I wanted to be a mother” but really, he will slowly realize, motherhood came on her by accident. She loves him; she isn’t sick yet; his dad is still around, for better or worse. Victor Nikiforov is about to win gold. His mother doesn’t take her eyes away from the TV for almost ten minutes, through Victor’s skate, through the reading of his score. He’s the last performer, having place first in his short program. The numbers are a finale, the wait ended. His mother doesn’t look away once. Yuri is eight when he first feels insignificant, old enough to clarify the emotion.

“What a beautiful boy,” Anna sighs, leaned forward, hands clutching her knees. They hurt her. And her feet. Yuri rubs them with smelly lotion and his mother pets his hair and tells him she is so lucky to have such a good boy for a son. But right now, she is staring at the screen, the just-noticeable fuzz of an image wound together by technological might, Victor Nikiforov sweaty and smiling and yes, _beautiful_. Yuri isn’t looking at him after he leaves the ice. Why would he? It’s just dumb interviews; he’s watching his mother’s face, the trembling wetness in her eyes, the lines around her mouth.

He starts skating a week later. His grandpa takes him to the ice rink. Babushka gives him a hot piroshky to eat on the walk there and one when he comes home. His feet are a little sore but he didn’t fall much. This is how it goes.

When he is ten, his dad leaves and doesn’t come back. Without all the yelling, the house looks new with quiet. He sleeps with his mom every night for a month. His grandmother dies. His grandpa moves in. When he is eleven, his mother buys a poster of the Russian skate team dramatically and formidably posed for the Olympics. She is sick. When he is eleven, Victor Nikiforov wins a gold at the Olympics. He watches from his mother’s hospital bed.

“Beautiful,” she says again. From the corner of his eye, the movement of speech shifts her face and the tubes from her nose catch and bounce a sliver of fluorescent light. She looks better when they get to go outside. It’s the lights that make her look this way. The lights.

After, his grandpa puts in a VCR of Yuri’s own skate performance. He doesn’t want her to watch it after _that_. After Victor Nikiforov. He can only manage the babiest of jumps. But his grandpa waves his protests away and he hides against her soft breast and bony ribcage and watches her face as she watches him and her eyes spill over. She didn’t cry for Victor Nikiforov.

“My Yuratchka, look at you.” She holds his hand.

He sleeps there, in a little cot. He keeps the lights off and opens the windows, lets all the bright in. She looks better.

 

He’s good at ice skating. Being good becomes his normal. There’s routine in performing well. Bad days are…bad days. He hates bad days. His grandpa introduces Yuri to his friend, Mr. Yakov Feltsman. Yuri isn’t sure how good of friends they are, but maybe it doesn’t matter to old men. They sit and drink and watch something and that’s enough. His grandpa is firmer these days, a little less forgiving. Yuri tries to be perfect. He strains under it, in the house, being so good. Until he gets to school. He’s still in school. He’s terrible there. His teachers are idiots. He just wants to skate. Skate until he’s bone-tired and then go home, fall asleep in his mother’s room. It’s different now. A nurse comes once a day, hospice care. His grandpa works again, all from home, something on his junky computer. Copy-editing or something. They don’t talk. Yakov takes him to eat.

Yuri feels like he’s trading out one old man for another. Yakov lets him order whatever he wants so Yuri orders the most expensive thing on the menu and Yakov grunts, almost amused, arms crossed over his head, hat off, balding.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, like Yuri’s some little kid. He hates that.

“Victor Nikiforov’s coach,” is how he responds. And Yakov looks surprised, confused, then annoyed. Yuri’s seen him on TV bunches of times, a mostly stone-faced man who fell prey, it seemed to Yuri, to Victor’s powers. Victor could make his coach puff steam or nearly bounce with pride.

“That tart,” Yakov harrumphs. Yuri isn’t sure that he knows what Mr. Feltsman means by _tart_ , but he doesn’t care. It makes him happy, to hear that tone directed to Victor Nikiforov even if Victor Nikiforov can’t hear. It’s just for Yuri now.

“So what?” Yuri finally asks.

“So you’re good,” Yakov says. And neither discuss if Yakov isn’t doing Nikolai a favor and did Yakov ever see his mom skate and – and – and Yuri goes.

She doesn’t die. That’s important. She starts to recover, stabilize. These things happen. She smells like weird herbal oils a lot. She looks better in the sunlight.

 

He meets Victor when Victor’s twenty. Almost nothing else matters. He isn’t making friends. He’s bad at literature but decent at math. He’s twelve. Victor’s staying late from morning practice, reeking with sweat, and Yakov introduces him to all the kids. They all know him. Victor waves and is friendly and distracted and dumb. He skates along the ice with a little girl on his back. Yuri pretends he isn’t looking and shows off: angry when victor doesn’t skate over to tell him that he’s amazing and even better than him when he was that age; Yakov yells at Yuri for trying jumps he shouldn’t be trying. But his time comes. Of course it comes. He’s worthy of this. He’s better than anyone else at his age. He knows it. He’s looked at the numbers. No one…no one is like him.

Not even Victor Nikiforov.

Yuri doesn’t smile when Victor skates over to him, plants his hands on his hips like he’s posing for one of his stupid posters.

“Hi~~~ Yuri, right? Yakov told me about you! I’m Victor!” And sticks out his hand. But Yuri takes it. He takes it. It’s sweaty and Victor grins and shakes his arm like a water-pump loose in a flood. “You’re _so cute_. Little kitten!”

He calls Yuri kitten from thence on. Yuri wants to hate him for it, but he’s the only one. He helps Yuri when they’re on the ice at the same time and Victor wants to take a break without being too obvious. He praises Yuri and criticizes him in turn, nitpicky about stupid stuff that Yakov isn’t – Yakov rolls his eyes and groans about Victor ruining his pupils. (“Leave Yura alone, he’s practicing his figures!” “I’m not _doing anything!”_ “You’re looking at him. You’re going to osmosis your bad behavior into him!” and Yura keeps practicing his figures, flushed with pride at their attention, at _Victor’s_.) This is how it goes. He is twelve. Then he is thirteen. He’s doing well. Victor is doing even better. Victor is winning. Victor calls him kitten. Other people call him kitten now, but never the same way; Victor says it like it’s Yuri’s name. Gives him a big white cat plushie on his way off the ice at his first Junior Worlds. He squeezes it in the kiss and cry, Yakov’s arm over his shoulders, as he gets fourth.

Victor falls. Yuuri isn’t there when it happens, but he watches it on the livestream and burst into angry tears. “Get up, idiot.” And Victor doesn’t for too long, for too long to recover the song. And then he doesn’t come to the rink. And then he’s gone and Yakov’s either silent or angry, and Mila calls him kitten and picks him up and Yuri calls his mom and she asks if he knows about Victor “because you two were close, weren’t you, Yura?”

(Victor said once that he’d visit his mom when Yuri let it slip that she was a fan. He’s glad now that he never told her; Victor can disappoint him but not his mom.)

He’s twenty-one and gone, and Yuuri is thirteen and not an idiot. He’s suddenly not an idiot because it’s obvious – fucking obvious – that Victor’s been vanishing for a long time. Not a single person Yuri asks has spoken to him, knows why he left or where he went. Not a single person knows anything about Victor that isn’t public knowledge. And as Yuri asks around, he realizes he doesn’t know anything about his idol either, nothing that didn’t come out of a magazine, nothing that wasn’t a jump. There’s nothing about him to miss, in the end. People talk like they were waiting for it to happen.

“He’s so full of himself.”

“It’s about time someone else has a chance.”

“It’s super fucked up, no doubt, but I saw it coming.”

“I heard he faked the fall.”

“He’s such a drama queen.”

 

The only person who keeps looking at the ice like it lost something is Yakov. Yakov keeps looking for someone who isn’t even there when Yuri is _right there_. Yakov took him in as a special case, but Yuri might as well be a nobody; even when he’s gone, Victor Nikiforov’s shadow blots Yuri out. Yuri doesn’t care.

 

Then, well…

Victor comes back. And of course – _of course_ – perfect Victor Nikiforov comes back with a boyfriend and breaks a record and Yakov takes _Victor and his boyfriend_ _and their dumb dog_ with him on vacation. Yuri wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway. He gets to spend a few weeks visiting home, playing games with his mom, cooking with grandpa. The season starts again. He trains harder and harder. He podiums every time. Victor Nikiforov talks about death in a lot of his interviews. He doesn’t help anyone on the ice. He smiles once at Yuri as he’s putting no skates, a distracted empty smile, sweat already along his hairline, and says “good morning, little kitten,” and Yuri stares at him until Victor’s smile slips off, comes back bigger and defiant in its good cheer. Yuri doesn’t want his help. He doesn’t need help.

He lands a quad. Yakov goes ballistic.

“You are too young for that! I don’t care if you’re able to do it, Yura, it’s too much pressure on your body.”

“But I can do it.” He’ll get gold at Junior Worlds for sure.

“Don’t do it again. I’ll tell you when you’re ready to do quads and it won’t be until after puberty.”

And Yuri doesn’t know why but he snaps “You let Victor do a quad when he was still in Juniors!”

Yakov inhales deeply, looking to the ceiling of the rink and cursing to himself, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t imitate Victor.”

“I’m n-not,” Yuri sputters, snatching his water bottle from the wall of the rink. “I’m nothing like him!”

He’s transparent and juvenile. The crack in his voice gives him away, settles the cantankerous impulse in Yakov, replacing it with a familiar ease. He has never been adept at children, not in treating them like children; maybe if he was he’d have spared Victor some of his loneliness – but then where would he be, if not with Katsuki?; however, Yakov is adept at dealing with a particular brand of young skater.

“No? I remember when you used to follow him around all day on the ice –“

“I did not!”

“And the first thing you said to me was about Victor Nikiforov—“

“That doesn’t count!”

“Victor never listens to me either. He’s a willful brat even now--“

“FINE!” Yuri roars, throwing his empty water bottle at the empty stands, the hard durable plastic clanging against the metal bleachers. “ _Fine_.”

Yakov, bereft of a smile but no less victorious, slants his eyes heavily on Yuri. “No quads?”

Grinding his teeth in a way that his dentist will notice if Yuri ever works up the nerve to go back –how his gums had bled – Yuri chews through his irritation. “Fine,” he repeats churlishly, crossing his arms tight across his chest with a huff, feeling the quick hard beat of his heart not yet come to a rest. “But give me something I can win with. I want to win, Yakov.”

He doesn’t want to be like Victor Nikiforov because he isn’t stupid; he can see that Victor’s _fucked up_ . A him complete whack, a total fairy, too, too – too everything. Yuri is going to be all the best parts of him, but better. Unfortunately for Yuri, he’d set himself up for ending up a lot like Victor anyway. Because the Olympics are around the corner and his attempts to avoid anything to do with Victor (and oh of course when Victor saw him he always waved his toodly fingers and still called him kitten, like Yuri was still a little kid and like Victor hadn’t left him and everyone else behind like they were nothing, like he could come and go and keep taking gold and keep all of Yakov’s attention and just _be too much)_ nose-dived in the worst way. Because Lilia comes back from her abroad business and watches him on the ice. Yakov is sharper when she’s around, bent towards her; Yuri’s never seen him take counsel with someone before. Victor’s racing back and forth from one end of the rink to the next as fast as he can, a few other skaters with him, jumping triples at the end of each, a shattering noise in the clack of skates, sometimes bodies, cutting cutting cutting, and Yuri can feel something in the air, a decision. It’s his senior debut and of course Yakov’s going to be extra busy because Victor qualified for Pyeongchang.

When he’s waved over, he goes, heart racing for reasons other than his warm up. He draws to the wall of the rink, framed by Yakov and Lilia over the barrier.

“Yuri, you might not remember meeting my wife, Lilia.”

“A little kitten indeed,” Lilia appraises, looking him up and down so that he can see the purple eyeshadow on the fold of her eyelid, where it’s creased slightly. Yuri glares at them both; Lilia sees it immediately, as if the flinch of his disapproval was a wave of his arms. She clicks her tongue and reaches out, dismissive of any of his resistance, too used to possessing people’s bodies, making them her own. She pushes his bangs out of his face, takes hold of his chin and angles his face this way and that, taps her long nails under his jaw, a curl as if he were a kitten being teased. “He reminds me of Vitya.”

“No,” Yuri bites, jutting his chin out, glaring harder. “I’m not like him.”

“No?” Lilia challenges, “you are not passionate and beautiful and victorious? How sad. I have no interest.”

“Lilia,” Yakov sighs. She has a wicked smile in her eyes but nothing but plum-lipped boredom sets her mouth. She choreographed Victor’s Lilac Fairy routine, what won him a sweeping gold his final year of Juniors. She’s had a hand in quite a few skaters’ medals, when she was not making ballets that sold out. “Yuri,” Yakov grouses next. “I know Nikolai raised you better than that.”

It takes every bit of self control Yuri has not to scream otherwise; he doesn’t know why; his grandpa did raise him well; his mom did too. But Yakov stares him down through his anger even though it remains, sitting, making Yuri want to cry as it bloats up through him.

“Give him to Yuuri when he’s come back from Thailand. I have Vitya to focus on. It’s about time he learns how to dance like a man,” Lilia says firmly, ending Yakov’s premature lecture. She’s already turned her attention to Victor. Of course she has.

It takes a long moment for Yuri to process what she’s said.

And…No. No. Fucking. Way. Nofuckingway.

 

* * *

 

The dip in Yuuri’s spine streamlines sweat right down the center of his crack so that his asshole feels like a flooded quarry. He says as much to Phichit who cackles madly from his safe position behind a punching bag that creaks mildly as Yuuri does his best attempt of Tekken fight moves on it. Mostly, it just makes his fists hurt, wrapped though they are; worth it though because he’s been sending Victor pictures of him from this workout and getting a very approving response.

“You’re sweating like a pig,” Phichit points out obviously and indelicately.

“I feel like a hot little hog,” Yuuri agrees.

“Did you know pigs can’t sweat?” Phichit ask, probably reciting a fact he read off a popsicle stick. “And they prefer cold weather.”

“Huh,” Yuuri offers. He delivers one last kick to the punching bag, wincing a little as he feels the impact in his ankle. Okay, he definitely should have stuck to fists only. He can’t risk the ankles. “I’d agree, but I’ve survived Russian winters and I’d never call it my favorite season.”

“Plus, you definitely sweat.” Phichit shoves his petite weight at the punching bag and gets knocked down onto his butt. He rolls on the mat, laughing, and sprawls out. He has his own dark sweaty marks. Yuuri steps on his butt, then careful onto Phichit’s back. Phichit groans loudly into the mat and goes limp, letting Yuuri crush him in gentle rolls of his feet. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck.”

“Please sound less erotic,” Yuuri mumbles; he’d blush at his friend’s noises if all the blood in his body wasn’t already pounding.

“MmmmmmmmMMMMMMYUUUUURIIIIIII,” Phichit moans, voice cracking. Yuuri steps off him immediately, the lapse in pressure earning him a genuine grunt from Phichit. Phichit giggles, despite mourning the loss of his masseuse, and curls onto his side to watch Yuuri retrieve their water bottles. “Do you do that for Vicchan?”

“Yes, obviously,” Yuuri sniffs. “But he’s usually naked.”

Phichit screams, delighted. “God. I need to visit just for a sexy massage with you two.”

Yuuri snorts into his water bottle and chokes, everything going down the wrong pipe and a little out his nose. Phichit asks “you okay, my dudeliest dude?” but he’s filming it so he’s clearly not concerned.

He’s in Bangkok with Phichit, assisting him with an “experiential experimental exposure” training for some big ass company. Like Big. Ass. Company. It’s one of those synergy in the workplace training programs but Phichit worked on it so it’s actually interesting and not a bunch of people trapped at a hotel looking at powerpoints. Instead, people across the company’s divisions are mixed together in groups, CEO with phone clerks, all that, doing vaguely embarrassing but mostly fun things like learning to dance and basic hand-to-hand and timed office-building obstacle course scavenger hunts. It’d be an absolute mess at first bu as they wrap up four days of intense EEE, the barriers have diminished, people are chatting and collaborating, stories are being shared – and Phichit has already partnered with another small-scale business to create a consistent program to be implemented and broadened; three other companies have contact him about setting up their own EEE retreat. Honestly, Yuuri has no idea how Phichit does this kind of thing but he’s glad to have been included. Sure, he taught ballroom to a bunch of left-footed suits (and oh he shuddered to think of himself as one, so recently escaped) but he’s gotten to be with Phichit for a week and he learned how to throw a mean punch from their combat trainer Decha.  

He can’t _wait_ to go home and flip Victor onto the floor. It’s gonna be _awesome_. Victor won’t (he totally will) know what hit him.

When Yuuri stops casually choking to death for Phichit’s amusement, he pounds on his chest a few times, flips his friend off to Phichit’s utter delight. Yuuri meeps as he remembers the camera and runs at Phichit’s prone form on the floor.

“Delete that!”

“No! No no no!” Phichit scrambles up, trips, hits the ground again with Yuuri tackling him. All their recent training is pointless as they dogpile and wrestle like uncoordinated children.

“Ew don’t _lick_ me!”

“Let go of my phone!”

“Delete the video!”

“Mom says to come home,” Sasi interrupts from the doorway. She’s got her phone out too and is recording. “Losers.”

She’s eighteen and has a lot more attitude and wears a lot more eyeliner now than her brother ever did. She reminds Yuuri of Mari at the height of her _sukeban_ phase.

“ _háááááááááy_ ,” Phichit whines. “Delete that.”

“Yuuri,” Sasi says in a pointed tone. “Come eat.”

Phichit fake cries at the neglect but when Sasi turns away, ostensibly to leave them behind because suddenly she always has something better to do, Phichit grins and jabs Yuuri in the stomach. “Go eat with _Sasi~_.”

“Please stop,” Yuuri grumbles, slapping him away. Phichit recently found out Sasi has a crush on Yuuri, (“who wouldn’t” both he and Victor had said on the matter when Yuuri protested) and had teased Yuuri about it in front of Sasi to everyone’s great discomfort. Sasi, as a result, oscillated between scorn and sweetness. He gets to his feet and is mid-step when Phichit tackles him down again. “Phi!”

“Wait,” Phichit says urgently, pinning yuuri with all his might. Yuuri has a lot of muscle on Phichit, but he allows his friend temporary domination. “Wait, I totally had a mission tonight.”

“Hmm?”

“Remember that thing we talked about the other night?”

Yuuri does. He knows exactly what Phichit’s talking about. He clears his throat. “Maybe?”

“Don’t play dumb, Katsuki,” Phichit warns, poking Yuuri’s cheek. “Anyway. Okay. So. When you get home, do it.”

Yuuri lays like a dead fish beneath him.

“Do it.”

“Are you…sure?”

“Am _I sure?_ Are _You_ sure!”

“I’m…sure.”

“Really really _really_ sure?”

“Yeah….yeah. Yes.”

“Stop,” Phichit smacks his butt, “procrastinating. I’m telling you, do it. Just do it. Say you’ll do it.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Good….” Phichit gives his butt one last weak slap, eyes fixed on the slight tremble, his own worries translated through the timidity of the touch. “But it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course, if it isn’t the right time—“

“Phichit!”

“Okay okay!” Phichit gets off Yuuri and helps him up. “Cool. Let’s go eat. One more time to make you cry at the table.”

“I did not cry,” Yuuri pouts. Phichit’s mom’s cooking is spicy but he _did not_ cry. Phichit skips ahead, leaving Yuuri shackled in place by a surge of hesitations, but luckily Phichit knows to backtrack and drag his friend out behind him.

 

 

Victor picks Yuuri up from the airport. He can’t always, but Yuuri’s been gone a week in Thailand and before that two weeks of madness with BIBI. Victor had _not_ loved that, despite the boost to Yuuri’s acclaim it. Yuuri half loved, half loathed it. The choreography, conceptualizing, teaching to trained dancers? In a word: lit. Filming…cameras…pausing to restart at a new angle because _filming_ ….Alexi…being away from Victor for two ruthless weeks…not lit. Yuuri had slept poorly between that gig and this thing with Phichit, and when he was awake he’d been anxious in a way Yuuri said he hadn’t been in a long time, so bad that he’d called Victor crying because he couldn’t remember how to drive or get home. That had been terrifying, stuck across town listening to Yuuri descend into a panic attack over the phone, confused and raw and saying “sorry sorry sorry” so that the words puddled over themselves, a mess of language and accent and tears.

He’d very nearly told Yuuri not to go to Thailand. He’d known, if he said not to, Yuuri wouldn’t have, and if he’d asked if Yuuri was sure he felt okay for the trip, that Yuuri would have crumbled, would have spent everyday leading up to it fixated on everything that could go wrong for sleepless nights. So instead, he’d said go, Phichit will take care of you, and I’ll fly right there and get you if you want to come home. And it was the right thing to do because Yuuri had a good time and learned delicious new tricks and Phichit checked in with Victor on everything too when Victor asked for updates.

He can’t see any of that in Yuuri now. Yuuri is groggy from the flight, dazed, silent as Victor gets his luggage and takes his hand and guides him to the car.

“No Makka?” Yuuri mumbles, knuckling his eyes. _Adorable._ Victor honestly can’t believe that Yuuri will turn twenty-nine this year.

“I didn’t want her to have to sit in traffic on the way here.”

“Kay.” Yuuri yawns hugely, wide enough that Victor can see the silver fillings in his back molars. He huff and shoves his face into Victor’s chest, pressing Victor against the passenger side of the car with his weight. “Missed you.”

“Yuuri!” Victor coos, delighted by the easy cuddles. He wraps his arms around Yuuri and rocks him gently. “I missed you too! So so soooooo~ much.”

Yuuri hums and grips the back of Victor’s shirt. It’s summer and warm; Yuuri’s hands are cool from the air conditioning. They go home; Victor wanting to rest his hand on Yuuri’s thigh but stuck having to up and down shift nearly constantly through the traffic. Yuuri seems weirdly zen though, content to stare out the window and be the one with his hand on Victor’s thigh, or stare at Victor with an inscrutable expression that Victor can’t help glancing at; Yuuri doesn’t try to not be caught staring. Maybe after two years together, he doesn’t mind being caught staring so much anymore, not how he used to get nervous.

Makkachin’s a whining mess when Yuuri steps into the apartment. They still haven’t moved, still the same small apartment. Moving during an Olympic year is out of the question. How much more delaying will they do, Victor thinks passively, watching Yuuri sit on the floor, swamped by Makka-kisses. The Makka-kiss economy is booming.

“She missed you too,” Victor says obviously. Yuuri hums again, back to Victor where he kneels on the floor. Nothing else, just sinking his hands into her fur and mumbling to the dog in quiet Japanese, little secrets Victor can’t hear enough to try to translate. His Japanese is pretty good, as is Yuuri’s Russian. They switch between the two, English mostly gone from the household. It’s  not home to either of their tongues.

“Hey, move in a little, love,” Victor says gently, realizing finally that he’s been staring at Yuuri while standing in the open doorway, Yuuri’s luggage up against his thigh. Yuuri startles, popping upright in a graceful unbending of bone and muscle, no hint of weakness or wobble in his body – his eyes are huge and overwhelmed, wet with tears.

“Yuuri?” Victor worries, reaching for him in shocked immediacy. Yuuri bursts into strained giggles, steps away and darts for the bedroom. “Yuuri!”

“A moment!” he yells back from behind the muffle of the slammed door. Makka barks at the noise and rushes the door, then back to Victor, tangling around his legs, knocking him into the doorframe. Victor bites the inside of his cheek, worried, but complies and brings in the luggage. He plugs in the electric kettle and hastens to set up a pot of tea, sure that Yuuri is simply overwhelmed or decompressing or something, and tea and a bath will set him right and –

There’s a thump and a curse from the bedroom. Victor raids the cabinets for something sweet and indulgent. Since when do they have so many fucking rice cakes? Fuck.

“Yuuri, do you want a snack?” Victor asks when he hears Yuuri finally emerge from the bedroom. It’s been a few minutes; he assumes, without looking, that Yuuri had been crying. He’d heard the faucet run for quite some time.

“Viten’ka.”

His voice doesn’t quiver. It’s firm and pleading at once, beckoning, a rare sweetness saved on for the dearest of moments. Victor steps back from the fridge, giving up on finding something tasty to ply Yuuri’s mood with and comes to a lock-kneed standstill on the edge of the open kitchen, vision all a spill of the living room and Yuuri; Yuuri in a suit, hair damp and pushed off his face, glasses still on – Yuuri, on a knee, holding out a black box and a gold ring. The air goes out of the room. Yuuri flushes at Victor’s audible gasp and takes a breath of his own, eyes locked on Victor.

“I was going to w-wait, uhm, until after the Olympics. I didn’t want to distract you or make you feel pressured. I don’t want to ever -- I want – I want to give you a promise you can touch. A good luck charm for you to have, that’s all my love. Without doubt. Without question. Without restraint or condition.”

Yuuri’s staring up at him earnestly, face spotted red, posture perfect and hands shivering with adrenaline. Victor, when he looks back at this moment, will correctly assume that Yuuri’s heart had been beating so furiously in his ear that Yuuri couldn’t even hear a word he said. That's okay. Victor will hear and remember every word for the both of them.

“I know this isn’t, ah, ha!” Makkachin has ambled over to give Yuuri another big wet kiss. He sends her away with a quick command, groaning softly. Victor cups a hand over his mouth and bites his knuckle to shush a break of laughter.  Yuuri droops for a minute before smiling sheepishly. “This isn’t romantic but I couldn’t wait. I didn’t want us to keep waiting as boyfriends when we can be fiancés. So! So, Victor Nikiforov,” Yuuri looks bright and brilliant and hopeful, somehow both a man making this offer and a little boy in his vulnerability as he shifts his hands up, tilting the box just a little more, eyes glassy; he takes a steeling breath before the most obvious question: “will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

Not a moment of silence touches the air between Yuuri’s question and his answer. Victor wanted to scream immediately. His hands are framing his face, pressing into his hot cheeks, blocking out his peripheral so all he has is Yuuri, his Yuuri, asking him to do this forever. Airports and traffic, Makkachin kisses and empty kitchen cabinets and mail piled up on the counter.

“Really?” Yuuri double-checks, disbelieving. “Are you – a-are you sure?”

“Yuuri! Yuuri, yes, yes I’m sure.” Victor laughs at the ridiculousness of the question. Yuuri finally allows himself to smile and he stands up, hand held out; Victor grins and lays in hand into Yuuri’s. Warm. He’s warm now finally, soft and careful as he thumbs Victor’s right ring finger, lifting it so that the simple gold band down around his finger.

And then, they just look at Victor’s hand, his slim finger, the new brightness of the gold.

After a minute, Victor breaks the silence. “You put on a suit.”

Yuuri snorts, but he keeps holding Vicor’s hand. “I didn’t want to wear my airport sweats. It’s bad enough I didn’t – god I don’t even have _flowers.”_

Victor laughs. Finally, he turns his hand over and captures Yuuri’s, bring his hand up to kiss the space where he will put a ring of his own on Yuuri’s hand. “I’ve wanted this since the moment I met you.”

“You have no impulse control,” Yuuri chastises fondly.

Victor kisses his finger again and then his lips. “You’re my fiancé now.”

“Wow,” Yuuri shudders, breathing out and looking down at the ring again. “I’m probably going to freak out later tonight. And tomorrow. And next Tuesday. Eighty-two percent chance I’ll forget I proposed and freak out at breakfast.”

Victor hums. He might forget too. Sometimes,he forgets about Yuuri entirely. Not how he forgets days or forgets himself, but forgets as in he leaves practice and gets into his car and halfway through the drive he remembers that he’s going home to someone. Yuuri and Makkachin, that he has a life suddenly. He has a life and he remembers it and in the space where he forgot he can see how easy and awful it would have been for him to have nothing for years and years with only a mind for competition.

He cannot wait to wear this remembering.

“I thought it’d be rose gold,” Victor murmurs, mostly to himself. It gives Yuuri pause and then he groans.

“I’m not matching our wedding rings to your collar. That’s…that’s _too_ kinky.”

“Aw,” Victor pouts, fighting a grin. “I thought you would. I think I owe Chris money now.”

 

Yuuri whips out a bottle of champagne from his luggage; they put it over ice and wait to pop it, facetiming Phichit who Yuuri revealed had given him several pep talks. Phichit sniffles and makes wild promises about the bachelor party. They wait to call Yuuri’s family; Yuuri stares for a moment with the silent question of _and yours_ that Victor only has to look away from for Yuuri to drop it. He never presses, never judges. He only tries to give Victor everything he needs in place of the things absent.

Victor keeps his face neutral when he brings out the champagne glasses. “I wish I had strawberries,” he sighs. “You’ve left me unprepared to celebrate in a proper fashion.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri apologizes, meaning it. He adjusts his glasses. He’s out of his jacket and tie, sleeves rolled up. “You deserve better, I should have waited. I’m sorry, Vitya, I should have made it more special.” He wiggles in his seat, shifting his thighs together and flexing his hands. Leave it to Yuuri to second guess his own successful marriage proposal to his happy fiancé.

“Don’t be,” Victor laughs, waving his hand. His heart’s beating like crazy, and it has no reason to because Yuuri is going to marry him. “I simply had no clue you were such a selfish man.”

He delivers the blow with just the right panache because Yuuri narrows his eyes in skeptical amusement, an indelicate snort that squeezes Victor’s heart. God, he’s so in love. He passes over a champagne glass, holding his own between a pinch of thumb and forefinger, a flourish of charming fingers that he learned makes him look more interesting at banquets, a habit he can’t seem to drop even in his own home.

“Are you going to sit?” Yuuri prompts, still smiling, still a little wrinkled with question between his brows.

“Yes, apologies, dearest master. I was only thinking of a proper toast,” Victor says, tapping his finger to his lip, tipping his champagne glass thoughtfully. Yuuri cocks his head, eyes sparkling, mouth going soft and patient. “Something fantastic, to mark the occasion.”

“’To us’ isn’t enough?”

“No, no. And ‘to love’ is just as bad. I know that’s what you were thinking.”

Yuuri chuckles, caught out. Victor smiles to hear it, to see it. Yuuri’s bottom teeth a shiny white line from this angle, his nose crinkled up so bad it makes his glasses slip. He’d only wet his hair with water and now it’s drying in fluffy pieces, curling down around his face once more. Victor can’t stand it, he can’t stand any longer. He snaps his fingers, feels his heart tick with the noise. “Got it,” he murmurs.

Yuuri shifts closer, all interest, all indulgence. His eyes are lidded, halfway to sex. Oh, god, Victor wants to be devoured by this man for all his life. So he reaches into his back pocket where a black box he’s had for months hiding in his closet has been hastily tucked, and drops to one knee like it’s the final pose of his show.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri whispers, eyes shooting comically wide behind his lenses.

“We’re both guilty of trying to find the perfect moment,” Victor sighs. Yuuri’s crying instantly, squeaky noises in his throat, a hand over his mouth and nose burning red. Victor giggles. “Yuuri! We’re already engaged!”

“B-but you – had a ring too-oo,” Yuuri cries, fanning his face like the drama queen he denies that he is. He’s perfect. And this is so silly Victor can’t believe it. He laughs, wheezing, and his vision goes hot and muddy with tears between one breath and the next. Yuuri sees it, sees his trembling jaw, and slides off the couch to clutch him.

“I’m proposing,” Victor whispers, petulantly, burying his face into Yuuri’s neck, his own offered ring lost somewhere between his bodies.

“I know. Keep going.” Yuuri can’t stand to see him cry. Victor sniffles and laughs, not embarrassed. Why should he be. He’s going to be married to Yuuri. He’ll get on a knee everyday.

“Oh my god,” Victor whispers, coming up for air with a gasp. “I just had the _funniest_ thought.”

“Really, Vitya, now?”

“….you’re right, I’ll tell you in a minute. Okay!” Victor shakes himself and sits out of Yuuri’s hold. He dabs gently at his eyes and winks at Yuuri who, well, is the worst crier ever and his face is going to be red splotches for the rest of the night. It’s okay. If they have to take pictures, Victor will put some color corrector on him first.

“Katsuki Yuuri, I know we’re already engaged – please don’t laugh, love, I’m being charming – _Yuuri_.”

Yuuri rolls against the couch, clutching his side, laughing hysterically. “We are _so gay!_ ”

Maybe this is how it goes for them, forever. They never find the perfect moment; they scrabble for something picturesque and find instead something ungainly, a coltish performance and too many tears and laughter by far. Victor can’t recall if he ever had so much tears and laughter in his life before. Makkachin whines from the couch, tail thumping like a billy club, and she licks Yuuri’s grinning face, making him sputter and struggle.

Victor will save the long speech for their wedding. “Yuuri?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?”

He wipes spit off his glasses and sits up, cheek on Makkachin’s paw. “Yes. I can’t wait to marry you.”

Yuuri drags Victor forward, champagne forgotten, and kisses him. There’s Makka spit on his face and Victor all but slaps Yuuri to wipe it off. They wrestle on the floor, Makkachin barking excitedly and zooming back and forth on the couch cushions.

“I’m going to propose again,” Victor swears.

“Where?” Yuuri challenges. “At the Olympics?”

“If I get gold, I’ll get down on my knee in the interview.”

“Puppy,” Yuuri croons obnoxiously, “if you get gold, I’ll get down on both of my knees for you.”

“Yuuri! That was the joke I wanted to make! Stop stealing my thoughts.”

 

* * *

 

Yuri has a smart phone now. So he sees it _twice_ from both of their fucking feeds.

 

[Victor with bedhead, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, foam on his lips, laughing, his hand a blur as it’s caught in a weak attempt to grab the camera, but a distinct band of gold visible.]

 **y-katsuki** wow…can’t wait to annoying him every morning for the rest of our lives.

 **v-nikiforov** me either @ **y-katsuki**

 

[Yuuri drinking something cold and green through a straw, squinting a smile with a patch of sunlight illuminating his eyes into a honey glow. The hand holding his drink is positioned in such a way that the bright gleam of a ring is clearly visible.]

 **v-nikiforov** it’s a matcha

 **Phichit+chu** YES BITCH

 **Milamifamire** OMGOMGOMGOGMOGM OMG !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **christophe-ge** that’s a terrible pun. I can’t allow yuuri to marry u if that’s what u came up with

 

There’s all kinds of crap and his twitter feed is much the same way. He gives up on social media because everyone’s favorite fucking couple got engaged. Great. Fucking great. Like people needed more of reason to talk about Victor Nikiforov.

Yuri opens youtube and the first five suggested videos are of Katsuki. If anyone asks, it’s because he’s been doing research on his new choreographer and _not_ that he’s a longtime fan ever since Katsuki’s fat ass funded Yuri’s scholarship.

 _Yeah_ . When his mom found out that Victor Nikiforov’s boyfriend’s _fat ass_ was responsible for her son’s scholarship that he wrote this sad little essay for – well she thought it was hilarious, laughing herself silly. Yuri didn’t mind in that moment. He’d laughed too. They joked about it all day, anytime something good happen saying it was because of Katsuki’s big ol’ bum. But it gave her all the more reason to love Victor. At least grandpa thought it was a little tasteless. On the cusp of turning sixteen, Yuri finally understands what Yakov calls Victor a tart. Yakov only shakes his head at Katsuki, chalking much of his behavior up to Victor’s bad influence.

Yuri’s seen Yuuri – he _hates that_ , like, god, of course his name is Yuuri. Victor probably did that on purpose – he’s seen Yuuri around a bunch. The guy comes to Victor’s practices sometimes with their giant dog – and no one knows why Victor always has his dumb dog with him or why Yakov likes her so much. Whatever. He’s seen Yuuri but he’s never met him. Mila adores him and so does Georgi. Georgi likes Yuuri more than he likes Victor, but then again, Yuuri isn’t keeping Georgi off the podium. Mila once told Yuri that Yuuri can help tutor him in maths and English.

No one, absolutely no one can ever see his youtube suggested videos. They are all a series of incriminating suggestion of Katsuki’s videos and fan compilations.

All this comes tumbling down over him over the course of very little time, a boulder-rush of absolute nonsense that he can’t shake from his head. He can’t stop cycling through it and getting more irritated and itchy and stressed; Lilia Baranovskaya doesn’t want him, she wants Victor. Yakov is shouldering him off onto Katsuki Yuuri, who probably doesn’t know anything about ice skating _and_ he just got engaged so he’s going to be super extra annoying.

The gaggle of (mostly girls) around Victor at the morning practice confirms Yuri’s suspicions. Victor is animatedly retelling the engagement “he changed into his nice suit when I was making tea and came out—“ “and then I proposed! Yes! Well I couldn’t let him think that I haven’t been ready and planning--!” and on and on, holding out his hand so everyone can look at the stupid ring. It doesn’t even have a rock on it. It’s just a gold band, like, what’s even the point? It’s probably not even real gold.

“Yura!” Victor waves at him when Yuri gets to the ice. He’s grinning like a fool, perfect ponytail dancing over his shoulder. Engaged to Katsuki. Gold medals and a gold ring and a fiancé and a dog and sponsors climbing up his butthole, primed for the Olympics. Russia ready to exalt him. He’s expected to bring home gold again.

In the back of Yuri’s mind, the pressure of the mere thought of all of his country knowing his name, expecting things of him, ready to curse or praise him, makes Yuri’s gut curl in on itself. He remembers again the transplanted fear at Victor falling, leaving. Coming back with a new perfect smile. Victor skating to suicide.

Yuri skates past him, doesn’t look at Victor’s following eyes.

 

There’s a studio basement at Yakov and Lilia’s home. Yuuri’s visits regularly; Lilia deigns to watch him. Yuuri hasn’t the audacity to consider himself exempt from tutelage and he savors every harsh criticism, every correction, every affirming uptick of her mouth. Some days her praise makes him feel worse than her disappointment. The days that he more than satisfies her, when she steps into his space and touches his face like he’s done so well that she has to touch his skin and make sure he hasn’t become doll-plastic with his perfection – he leaves feeling wasted. He’s not yet thirty. He’s in a rejuvenated state of body after his years off the extreme wear. She told him once, he could find a company; assuming no injuries, he could very well carry on till he was forty. But the body is half the battle of ballet.

Yuuri doesn’t want to be like her and Yakov.

His body could withstand the demands of a company role, even performing as a principal – but his heart? It wouldn’t last the distance. Sometimes, it takes a full night’s sleep, maybe even a week, to be content again. Most days though, he has only to open the door to the apartment, smell their home smell, find Victor, find Makkachin, and see how big and grand his life is without titles.

Lilia gives him Yuri. She takes Victor for herself.

“It’s his senior debut. Make him shine, Yuuri.”

He can’t ask for Victor. Victor’s another level. But he feels robbed all the same.

Plisetsky. Yuuri doesn’t tell Victor about it, not yet. It’s the off season, relaxed, but Pyeongchang looms, so it’s not off for Victor, not as much as they’d both like.

Plisetsky. Plisetsky. Yuuir does his research. Yakov and Lilia have the free skate and a fair bit of the choreography picked out for him; Yuuri will do the short. He hasn’t a clue yet what the hell that’s gonna be; maybe pop? He’ll figure it out. For now he can work on the freeskate dance translation. Yakov will handle the ice portion

From what he understand, Yuri is in a sort of dormitory with other young male skaters in the city. His family lives in another town; an ill mother and his grandfather. It’s pitiable but he’s done more than well for himself. Yuuri knows this because when Yuri was thirteen, he applied for the scholarship that icyhot helped fund. Yuuri saw the recipient's essays. It’s an uncomfortable thought; does Yuri know?

Yuri stops down the stairs to the studio, tank top and tights. He doesn’t greet Yuuri who is clearly visible in the middle of the empty room. He makes a fuss with his little backpack and his water bottle and texting on his phone while Yuuri stands there with a cocked hip and a flat expression. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t clear his throat, just waits with his arms crossed, thumb rubbing over his ring.

Eventually, Yuri – isn’t that a funny coincidence. They don’t sound the same coming off the tongue though – puts his phone away and turns to look at him, a mop of blond hair, bright green eyes, delicate features. Yuuri knew he had the sort of fae characteristics that Victor has, although Yuuri’s only seen Victor as a grown man with a jawline and a broad body. Not this slip of an adolescent body that truly does blur recognition into a far field of androgyny. Yuri in his twitter referred to himself as the ‘ice tiger of russia’ but anyone who gives themselves a nickname like that is a little kid.

“ _Kawaii_ ,” slips out of Yuuri’s mouth before he can stop it. It goes over about as well as one would expect.

Yuri’s eyes narrow and the metaphorical hackles rise. “What did you say?” he spits in Russian.

Yuuri laughs nervously and waves his hands. “N-Nothing, nothing. Let’s get started,” he replies in his own Russian, relieved he doesn’t butcher his words. “I’m Katsuki Yuuri. You may call me Yuuri—“

“That’s my name.”

“—or Katsuki-sensei,” Yuuri adjusts. “I guess?” He winces after; teenagers are merciless; he shouldn’t show any vulnerabilities.

 _“Sensei?_ Are you serious? I’m not doing that.”

“Katsuki is fine,” Yuuri sighs.

This is going to go well.

 

Yuri doesn’t talk, and neither does Yuuri if he can avoid it; so Yuuri warms Yuri up and runs through forms for Yuuri to get a feel for his new student. Yuri, like any skater worth his salt, does ballet. Victor does too, although he isn’t a huge fan ironically. (Unless it’s Yuuri doing the dancing.) Yuri has grace and raw talent, but he’s unrefined. He shortcuts motions, doesn’t fully extend himself, and his presence is…terrible. When Yuuri plays the song Yakov and Lilia chose for him, allegro impassionato in b minor, Yuri listens with a flat expression, drinking his water.

“What do you think?”

“S’boring.”

Allegro _impassinato_. Boring.

“What’s my short program?”

“I haven’t chosen yet. It’s early summer yet, and I wanted to get a feel for your abilities and range.”

“Yeah and?” Yuri presses, suddenly animated. He crosses his arms across his skinny chest and tips his chin up, defiant and demanding.

“A-and?” Yuuri stutters.

“ _And_ , what do you think?” Yuri’s eyes seek his, briefly wide before he ducks his chin like a cornered hart, bangs covering his face.

“Ah, I, ah,” Yuuri stalls. “There’s a lot to improve on. You have a good base. I can tell you’ve never had a private instructor; Victor’s had Lilia on and off through the years so even though he’s not enthusiastic about his ballet his form is always the best, whereas with you—“

“I don’t know why they picked you.”

Yuuri stops talking, baffled.

“You don’t know anything about ice skating, do you? And Yakov wants you to pick my short? This is so _stupid_ ,” Yuri whines bitterly, tossing his hair over his shoulder. It falls back into his face. “Like, you’re not even a real teacher. You’ve been doing this for what, a year? And it’s all been shitty pop dances for slutty girls.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Katsuki,” Yuri sniffs, arms crossed again, posture square and awkward. “All you’re good at is shaking your fat ass.”

“Didn’t my fat ass get you funding?” Yuuri counters immediately, his head tipped to the side; Yuri knows this, of course. It is…disturbing to consider that a child was funded through such means but money is money, in the end. Yuuri tries not to think of his embarrassing stunt too often. He sees his ass a lot on social media. He’ll never live it down, although he can’t regret it too strongly. It _had_ been for the children. That’s what Phichit always reminded him. He’s winded with the onslaught, confused at the sudden outburst. Where had that come from? Sure, they hadn’t been getting along, but they had been functioning pretty well for a first practice. Yuri had been quiet this whole time, taking everything silently, although with a few eyerolls here or there when Yuuri asked for something repeated.

Regardless, it’s not the best thing to say to diffuse the situation. Yuri all but spits at him.

“You’re a nobody riding Victor’s success. This is a joke. I bet he begged for you to have this job so he can feel better about himself for marrying some loser who couldn’t make it as a real dancer.”

It’s been a long time since someone was mean to him. It’s been a long time since someone told him he wasn’t a real dancer, too. It doesn’t matter that he’s hearing it from an irate child. It washes Yuuri cold with doubt, the words stinging him.

“Victor doesn’t know I’m your instructor,” Yuuri clarifies quietly, as if that’s the most important part. As if he isn’t hurt. But he is; that’s his fear, isn’t it? All of it. He is a nobody. He is only in this position because of Victor. Victor’s given him everything. Victor’s the star, the real performer, the proper athlete. Yuuri is only here by chance. He didn’t earn any of this, did he? He just sucked the right dick, in the end. Had a fat ass and let people exploit it.

“Ha! Yakov and Lilia _love_ Victor. They’d give him anything.” Yuri throws it out into the room scornfully. Yuuri hears it but his ears are ringing and he’s – blank.

“If you want to leave, you may,” he dismisses. Unprofessional. Idiot. A few words and he can’t keep going. He hasn’t come far at all. “If you think I’m unqualified to instruct you, speak to your coach on the matter. I have plenty of fat-assed sluts to teach should I find myself free of a child.”

Yuri gapes at him, clearly surprised by the lack of a fight. What, did he think Yuuri would yell or defend himself? Yuuri can’t even make eye contact with him right now. His nose burns with tears. He grabs his water and makes a point to drink it turned away, makes his posture easy and unconcerned but he’s waiting and waiting until Yuri snorts a curse and snatches up his bag noisily, stomping up and out of the studio, out of the house. Lilia is at the rink with Yakov, watching Victor.

 

He locks the door. He walks home. His feet hurt. He makes instant noodles, eats them in bed. Makkachin watches him plaintively for scraps. Victor comes home and sits down beside him, smelling like dried sweat.

“I look like that guy,” he says, tapping the screen.

“Seshomaru?” Yuuri squits. “God.” He really hopes Victor doesn’t find out that they’re dog demons. The last thing he needs is more motivation to get the furry ears and tail buttplug ensemble that’s been floating around in his shopping cart on one of the toy sites they like and _inu yōkai_ would probably be the last justification for that purchase.

“What’s this anime?”

“Garbage.”

Victor hums and watches it. There’s a lot of words he doesn’t know being thrown around; all the attack names and random crap aren’t in his vocabulary.

“Kagome! Inuyasha! Kagome! Inuyasha! This is garbage,” Victor agrees. He picks out a cold noodle from the empty cup on the nightstand and sighs. “So what happened?”

Is he disappointed that Yuuri can’t even make it two days of being happily engaged?

“Do you know who is the skater that I'm instructing?”

“I have guesses…” Victor trails off. _Inuyasha_ keeps playing but they ignore it with everything but their eyes, bright colors flashing before them but gone unseen as they listen for each other’s hovering breath.

“Yuri Plisetsky.”

Victor _hmms._ “He’s a lot.”

“He’s a little brat,” Yuuri corrects dully. Victor laughs loudly, startled and snorting, and rolls to face him.

“He doesn’t like me,” Victor says, smile dimming. “Not that many skaters do but—“

“No, he doesn’t,” Yuuri cuts in mercilessly. He’s had time to think about it. “I’ve seen jealous teenagers before but he seems…more than jealous.”

“Ah.” Victor scoots closer and presses his face under Yuuri’s chin. “He used to like me. When he was little. More little. The cutest kitten, Yuuri, he had this terrible bowl cut. It was amazing. His mom’s been in and out of hospice from what Yakov told me.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs. Victor’s body melts into him as Yuuri reaches around to hold him.He loves the warmth and weight of Victor; it keeps him together. “I read his essay. He has a lot of sponsors though; he was the top junior skater.”

“He’s better than I was,” Victor admits easily. “But he’s cocksure. Drives Yakov up the wall.”

“Sounds familiar,” Yuuri says wryly.

“What did he do to get you in bed eating cup ramen and watching terrible anime?”

Yuuri sighs. “Nothing…nothing that I don’t already know. Or, uh, like, I know what you’ll say if I say it.”

“So say it.”

“Vitya, no, there’s no point.”

“There is if you’re upset but, fine, okay.” Victor squeezes him. “I need to shower. Do you want to cook tonight or me?”

“I’ve got it. It’ll be good for me to – yeah. Tell me about your day after your shower, hmm?”

Yakov doesn’t call him to fire him. Lilia doesn’t ask him anything. Yuri shows up on time the next day, says nothing as Yuuri stands there. It’s awful, but Yuri showed. Either he knows Yuuri is a good choice or he doesn’t want the trouble that throwing a fit would bring. Maybe, more likely, is that he has no choice in the matter. Yuuri doesn’t ask.

Warm ups. Standard ballet. Then, allegro impassionato.

 

Victor already decided to make his short program the Eros opposite of last year’s Agape. He’s happy the first day about it; they salsa dance in the kitchen and trade shrimp-flavored kisses after dinner while the dishes soak. It’s summer; Victor only skate maybe two hours a day. They get to work out together, a much more toned down routine than normal. Victor finally gets paperwork done to formalize Makkachin’s status as a support pet so they can bring her on the flight to Hasetsu at the end of summer. Summer’s halfway over and both of them know that engaged or not, once the season begins, that they won’t have a break the whole way through.

Victor kisses him all over one night as “Stammi Vicino” plays from his laptop. Both pieces will showcase Victor’s talents on the ice. A fast and hot short, and this dramatic longing promise for his free. The concepts behind them are simple and universal too. They’re good choices.

“People will see all my love for you with them.”

Kisses coursing violins and the trembling promise of bodies entwined. Yes, that sounds right to Yuuri. The whole world will watch Victor shine.

The interlude of high spirits vanishes the next time Victor has a session with Lilia. He’s quiet all evening, breath getting fixed in his chest as he lapses into tense thoughtfulness that has Yuuri watching him worriedly. When Victor refutes any conversation on his distracted thoughts, Yuuri puts on tea and fetches his collar.

Victor goes boneless the moment the leather closes around his throat.

“Can I make you forget what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Yuuri asks gently, scrunching his fingers through Victor’s hair, massaging his fingers up over Victor’s scalp; he rubs circles at his temples then leans Victor’s head back against his chest and kneads his brow bone and the pinched height of his nose. Victor’s mouth drops open in pleasure at Yuuri’s deft work.

“Already…have,” Victor slurs.

He lets Yuuri stretch him out comfortably on the couch, resting back to Yuuri’s chest, while Yuuri massages his face; brows, nose, teasing fingers in his mouth that dissolves into sucks and lazy nibbling, his jaw, down to his chest. By the time Yuuri is rubbing Victor’s hands, as limp and floppy as a fish, Victor’s damp-eyed in deep comfort and half-hard from the stimulation.

It might be nothing, whatever put Victor in a mood. But the only thing that could have done it has to do with Lilia. Yuuri can’t imagine a conversation between them that Victor wouldn’t want to share, especially now…unless…except if it was about Yuuri. And he can’t stop himself from replaying Plisetsky’s cruel words even as his hands rub beneath Victor’s shirt.

Did lilia tell Victor that yuuri was useless? That Plisetsky is worse than he started? Or maybe she made a point to talk about what wasted potential he is, or…or that he isn’t really as good as anyone thinks, that it’s all a lie; Victor Nikiforov is marrying a nobody, a fat-ass internet meme. Just another dime a dozen dancer where half his fans just want to fuck him, not see him dance. Or something. And just as Yuuri had said about not telling Victor his troubles because he already knew what Victor would say, maybe her enow Victor was employing the same idea. Have they become too used to each other, too predictable, that it isn’t worth consulting each other on problems? It hasn’t even been two years. It isn’t as if they’ve run out of conversation topics. Sure, they don’t talk constantly, both like their silence and their space and to be mutually engaged in something but if there’s a problem they should be talking about it right—

“Yuuri?”

Victor’s hands cups his face, the angle bizarre as he bends his arm backwards to do so. Victor’s looking up at him, head cocked, face once more troubled and all of Yuuri’s work at relaxing him has come undone.

“What’s wrong?”

Yuuri sucks in a breath, feeling his lightheadedness. His hand spasms and he unclenches where – god, he’d been digging his fingers into Victor’s side. There’s nail marks and a dark red ache left behind.

“I’m sorry! Puppy, I – I’m sorry,” Yuuri frets, aghast, hands coming over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles behind them.

“I know,” Victor murmurs, sitting up and twisting in Yuuri’s lap. He looks at Yuuri pensively, eyes flicking between Yuuri’s, restless and needy and somehow distant. “You went away on me for a few minutes.”

Yuuri shrugs, a poor response. He wants to say _I went looking for you_ but that’s not fair. He’d been taking care of Victor just now, he’d been bringing victor to him from his thoughts. And Yuuri got so distracted he’d clenched up Victor’s skin. Marks from sex were one thing but marks from carelessness?

“Tell me what's wrong,” Victor demands flatly.

“N-nothing.”

“Liar.”

Yuuri narrows his eyes at Victor. “You tell me what’s wrong first.”

Victor flinches; his frown intensifies. “Don’t be a dick.”

Yuuri blows out a breath that stirs the fine hair around Victor’s face. “I’m thinking about all the bad things that could be upsetting you.” Half-lie. But it lands like a truth. Victor sits away, hair coming over his face like a curtain. Yuuri stays still and silent.

“I already know what you’ll say,” Victor admits tonelessly. Confirmation of his suspicions stabs at Yuuri. Are they past comforting each other? How did that happen. They’re newly engaged, they should be drunk and merry and fat, not – not this. They should be in Hasetsu, right now. Victor loves Hasetsu. “and it’s stupid anyway. It’s – it’s nothing, Yuuri.”

“Liar,” Yuuri whispers, throat thick. He reaches for Victor and drags him back into his lap; Victor whines and buries his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. He’s heavier than ever before, bigger too. His shoulders are so broad that like this, Victor dwarfs him. Yuuri isn’t sure he’s stopped growing yet. All of Victor’s cold-weather clothes are in the process of being tailored. Bigger all over.

“I’ll tell you when…when I’ve made up my mind.”

“it’s a decision?” Yuuri asks, rubbing his back. Victor nods slightly and lets out a grumpy huff.

“It’s skating stuff. It’s stupid. Don’t worry about it, Yuuri.” He seems determined to make this the end of the conversation and bites into Yuuri’s shoulder sharply. It hurts and Yuuri despairs that it’s also an erotic trigger.

“Puppy…”

“Exactly,” Victor reminds him with a bite to the other side of Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri lays back and takes it, letting Victor put teeth marks into his skin, lets teeth become lips. Victor punishes his neck until he’s content with how red he’s made Yuuri, until Yuuri’s tense and wired. Only then does he leap off from the couch, exciting Makkachin who gets up from her bed to investigate. Victor whirls on her happily and taps his chest, prompting her to jump up with her front paws. He dances her around the room, cooing enthusiastically, narrating her astounding beauty and canine perfection. His face is smooth and smiling once more, animated without concerns. Yuuri rubs his neck, trailing the shape of Victor’s teeth.

Victor catches his eye after a few minutes, half-question, half-demand. Yuuri eases off the couch and crosses to Victor to hook his finger into the heart-ring in the front and lead him to the bedroom.

Bottled frustrations follow them both the next day despite the work-out in the bedroom. Yuuri runs Yuri through it hard at practice. They operate better as of late. Yuri’s stopped resisting Yuuri and acting like Yuuri doesn’t know anything, which…yeah, great…but it isn’t the student-instructor relationship he wants. He isn’t sure how long he’ll be with Yuri. Assuming he does well in seniors and is able to qualify for the grand prix, that’ll be his first major competition. Then Russian Nationals.

One day at a time, one day at a time…

 

He plays a rendition of[ zui-zui zukkorobashi ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnHqre6BgJ0) with a straight face. He couldn’t help but hear the sound of the choir he’d been in as a little kid in the back of his head, but this piece hardly suggested a gaggle of little kids singing the song. Yuri’s face scrunched up in intrigued curiosity, although Yuuri fully expected to be told that the song was stupid.

“You’re making me skate to some Japanese crap?”

“Yes. Your routines haven’t been musically diverse.” It would make Yuuri’s role as choreographer very obvious; he could only hope it didn’t come back and bite him in the butt.

He plays the music again but this time he takes the center of the studio. Immediately, he moves with the music, allowing the staccato rhythm and layers of instruments to propel him. It’s contemporary ballet with a healthy dose of isolation inspiration; he doesn’t dissect his movements but as flowing as he is, there’s a rhythm with substance and shape that accents the notes of the music. This is how Victor would say he makes music with his body.

He’d showed Victor the routine and hd him adjust a few steps to greater reflect the movements that would be present on the ice, but it is at its core a dance routine. Only the feet and jumps will differ. Yuuri’s more than pleased with it.

It’s a short program, and for him not too intense. He finishes with a quickened heart but comfortable as he turns to face his young pupil.

“How do you like this Japanese crap?”

Yuri’s face goes hot and Yuuri leans back with a smile. “Shut up.”

“Oh? Do you want taught it or not?”

“Yeah,” Yuri huffs, a lopsided smile emerging. “Teach me that crap.”

So Yuuri breaks it down, foregoing the music for now to teach the upper body motions on their own. It’s not quite ballet and not quite folk or pop but a pleasant mingling that Yuuri believe breathes life through the body. It’s a longer practice than normal for this and a closer one too. Yuuri has to adjust Yuri’s body several times and take him inch by inch in a push-pull. When Yuri stops resisting, he is marvelous and earnest in his effort. Yuuri wishes he could shake off all that stubborn brattiness and find the raw Yuri beneath. He will be something beautiful.

Yuri doesn’t want to leave and Yuuri gets caught up in the focus of the young boy, so much so that he misses his phone vibrating in his bag one too many times until eventually, Victor must give up and come to the house himself. Yuuri doesn’t hear his descent and entrance until Yuri snaps off from his posture with gaping eyes and a loud “holy shit,” that scares Yuuri whirling to follow the point of his eyes.

It’s Victor. At first, Yuuri can’t seem to see him, almost like he’s out of focus, something _wrong_. Then the wrongness comes into clarity. His hair has been cleaved, ragged chopped ends around his ears like – like took kitchen scissors to his ponytail in a fit. Which is precisely what Yuuri suspects happened when he looks at Victor’s red-rimmed eyes and glazed expression.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says gently, too stunned to move.

Victor blinks sleepily at him and lists to the side to lean against the wall, head thunking audibly. Yuuri darts forward, hands out to support him at his elbows.

“Sorry,” Victor says, rupturing Yuuri’s quick hand-pat check over. “I took one of your valium.”

“Did you drive here?” Yuuri hisses, guiding Victor to sit on the floor. He doesn’t notice Yuri creeping up behind him.

“Yeah. Sorry. I had to. You weren’t home. You were supposed to be home and I was – Makkachin’s in the car. Shit. I left her – left her out there.” Victor puts a hand over his face and makes to rise but Yuuri pushes him down again. His own body’s in a panicked rushed, heart racing and skin hot.

“I’ll get her.”

Yuuri’s neck twinges when he whips his head around to see Yuri’s strained expression, his eyes wide and shaking as he looks down at Victor. Yuuri bites his lip, looking back at Victor; Victor has his eyes closed, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Yuuri has no clue how valium will interact with his other medication.

“Bring her in here, Yuri, please.”

Yuri runs up the stairs. Yuuri moves away only to grab his water bottle and pass it to Victor who grunts but at Yuuri’s urging, sips from it.

“Do you feel sick?”

“Dizzy,” Victor mumbles. “Sweaty.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri wipes his thumb over Victor’s brows. “Stay sitting, Vitya.”

Its no time at all and forever before Makkachin comes barrelling down the steps, whining immediately. She presses up into Victor and stays put with a few wet snuffles in his hair. He slumps against her, burying his face into her collar, arms loose around her back. Yuri hovers at the top of the stairs before rushing down again and sitting on the step above Victor.

“W-what’s wrong with him?” Yuri whispers, knees pulled up under his chin, arms locked around them.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Uhm.” He looks miserably at Victor’s curled form. “Medication stuff.”

“What the fuck did he do to his hair?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he need to eat or does that make him nauseated with the meds?”

The question gives Yuuri pause. Not the subject but that it leaves Yuri’s mouth. Seeing Victor like this might be disturbing, but it wouldn’t be the first time Yuri’s seen someone snowed out, would it? He tended to his mother enough didn’t he, as a little boy.

“See if there’s crackers, if you would, Yuri. Thank you.” Yuuri manages to smile and  Yuri gives a short nod before bounding upstairs.

Yuuri grabs his bag and pulls out his phone, eyes still on Victor who hasn’t moved. Yuuri can’t imagine the valium having a dangerous reaction to Victor’s mood stabilizers or antipsychotics because Yuuri’s been on antipsychotics and valium at the same time before when he couldn’t find medication that worked for him. But Victor’s never taken valium, shouldn’t really take it, so it’s no doubt knocked him off his feet. Yuuri sits beside him again, not touching though he wants too. Makkachin’s contact enough. He instead worries his hands through his hair while the line rings in his ear.

Yakov doesn’t even get a greeting out before Yuuri snaps at him. “What the hell happened?”

Yuri jumps at the outburst, eyes wide as Yuuri for the first time ever raises his voice and he’s _scary_.

“Is Vitya with you?”

“Yes. We’re at your house. He cut off his hair and took – took one of my valium. So what the hell happened in the five hours since I saw him last and he was with you, Yakov?”

Yuuri never speaks this way, not with anyone. He regrets it when Victor whimpers a reproachful and pathetic “yuuri,” that makes Yuuri bite his tongue. He reaches out for Victor’s hand and shushes him gently. Victor twists his hand into Yuuri’s, trembling but holding tight.

“We’re almost home,” Yakov says curtly, saying nothing about Yuuri’s tone. It’s a brief call. Yuuri furiously googles drug interactions and is confident Victor will be fine in an hour or so but god, he can’t bear seeing him look so out of sorts. Yuuri doesn’t even know where to begin with the hair. He knows, in his gut, that their bathroom must be covered in Victor’s hair, all torn out silver stitches.

“I’m fine,” Victor croaks. Yuuri squeezes his hand and looks up from his phone; Victor’s blinking slowly at him, still smashed into Makka’s fur, a smile summoned to his lips. “I’m fine, Yuuri.”

“No, you aren’t.” Yuuri shifts closer to push Victor’s hair from his face and touch his cheek. “But it’s okay. Okay? You’re okay.”

Victor laughs, just a scoff of air. “I’m not fine…but I’m okay. Great…great logic, Yuuri.”

“Hey,” Yuuri pouts, laughing miserably. “Can you act extra sick when Yakov shows up so I can really really yell because – I – I’m gonna yell. You know I hate yelling.”

“Scary,” Victor laughs again. His eyes roll In his head, and for one second Yuuri thinks he’s going to faint, but it’s just Victor out of sorts trying to find Yuri who’s still perched and tense. Victor takes one long, inscrutable look at Plisetsky before he buries his face into Makkachin’s shoulder. He doesn’t look up until the front door upstairs opens. At the sound, Yuri takes off running again. Yuuri can hear him burst into a rapid fire explanation of what happened, the Russian a blur.

It’s Lilia that descends the staircase first, her heels clicking, her posture and clothes as buttoned and austere as ever but something guilty lurks in her face. Yuuri finds himself clenching his jaw.

“Vitya,” she says in a cool tone, like she’s scolding him. Victor sits up immediately, flushed, staring up at her.

“I did it,” he says. He lifts his chin and grins again, eyes shut, mouth too big for his face. “Told you I could do it. Told you I can be a -- be anything.”

“You couldn’t wait for a stylist?”

It clicks. A stupid skating decision. The hair. Lilia. Of course. “You did this to him?” Yuuri growls.

“He did this to himself,” she counters immediately, no hesitation. She must have been preparing herself for the consequences of whatever harsh word or issued challenge the entire car ride.

“You know better,” Yuuri snaps, rising to his feet. She towers over them, on a higher step, taller than Yuuri, taller too in her heels. “You know better than to – to do whatever you did.”

And fuck, Yuuri doesn’t even know what she did but Victor’s a mess and Yuuri can already see an extended fall out from this. Suddenly, everything in their lives is a fucking tally mark on one side of the equation. Will Victor start sinking, will they have days weeks or months of depression or will Victor run off again somewhere or skip his meds again because he thinks he doesn’t need them. Will the ring suddenly become to heavy and Victor will want to call it off only to cry about it helplessly a few days later? Because it’s been a rocky road and Yuuri hates, hates when Victor fades in and out of his own control and he hates the fights that aren’t fights but are strange time loops and paling water from the ship.

“Lilia, go sit with Plisetsky,” Yakov interrupts whatever may have come. Yuuri’ sucks in a breath and it comes back out as a sob. He’s shaking all over. Victor’s digging his hand into yuuri’s ankle, trying to ground him, saying “Yuuri, I’m fine. It’s fine. Darling, please, Yuuri, it’s fine.”

Maybe it’s Yuuri’s pathetic crying or Victor’s desperate mumbling, but Lilia’s removed façade breaks. She looks on them piteously before ascending the stairs, shoulders just a little too neatly back as if she’s fighting to maintain herself. Yakov passes her on the way down, hat gone; it's always weird to see him in his home with his sleeves pushed up and his shoes off.

“Vitya, look at me, son,” he says simply, crouching in front of Victor. Yuuri presses the back of his hand against his mouth to quiet himself. Victor grumbles, a cranky “Yakov” but does as he’s told. Funny. Sometimes he’s so obedient. “After you left the rink, what did you do?”

Victor sighs, head rolling against the wall. He looks up at Yuuri and the hand on Yuuri’s ankle releases and gropes up for Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri takes it immediately and collapses next to Victor, cuddling him close.

“I ate. I showered. And then – Yuuri wasn’t home. And. No one was home. And I was in the bathroom and I,” he purses his lips, “cut my hair. But I don’t,” he touches it then, feels the uneven ends, the new lightness of it, “I don’t remember. But I got really…scared? So I took Yuuri’s valium to calm down and came here. I figured…I guess, people would be here?”

Yakov nods. “Why did you cut your hair?”

“She said I couldn’t,” Victor says flatly. He’s flat as death before he smiles. “I’m Victor Nikiforov. I can do anything.”

Lilia drives Yuri back to his school dorm and Yuuri drives Victor and Makkachin home. He runs a bath and its in it holding Victor, washing him slowly, holding him tight. Yuuri ended up taking a valium back at Yakov’s to stave off his own panic attack that had choked up in his throat and blacked out the corner of his vision the second he got upstairs and found Lilia and Yuri gone, no one to unload his anger onto.

There’s some forced-down soup and then back to bed, the next day ostensibly cancelled until well after noon. Makkachin roots into Victor’s side and Yuuri can’t stop asking if it’s okay to hold him until Victor snaps, frustrated, and flips Yuuri over and possesses him as the big spoon.

“Stop talking,” Victor begs. “Yuuri, stop talking, please.” So they fall into silence and Yuuri lays awake with Victor’s arms vice-locked around him, his short hair ticklish on his cheek.

 

 

A short “is he ok” chimes from Yuri while Yuuri’s making breakfast.

“I think Yuri secretly likes you.”

“Plisetsky?” Victor grunts around his delicate teacup. He looks frayed. His stylist friend is coming over in a few hours to fix the mess on his head.

“No, me but in the third person.”

“Ha, ha, someone’s brilliant this morning.”

Yuuri knuckles at his dry, sleepless eyes and yawns. “That’s me. Brilliant and not-so-secretly in love with you.”

Yuuri drops a kiss on the part of Victor’s bed head hair for good measure. Victor raises his face and pouts for a kiss on the lips that Yuuri grants more than happily despite Victor’s morning breath simmering behind his lips. He avoided the mirror, taking a piss in the dark before slinking into the kitchen, Makkachin at his heels. She’s been following him around all morning. Yuuri really fucking glad all her paperwork is through. They can get a support animal vest now.

Victor raises his cup to his lips and just before his next sip, he asks offhandedly, “you still love me even though I’m ugly now?”

Yuuri coughs into his own teacup. “Who-what now? _Victor_.”

Victor sets the porcelain down daintily. “I’m only asking.”

“Is this…are you serious? Do you – you know you aren’t, right? Right?”

“Of course I’m not ugly,” Victor laughs but it’s wrong. It’ll probably be wrong for a few days too. “I was on more than one hottest bachelors lists. Oh, I hope they have a hottest fiances list. We can both be on it.”

Yuuri ignores the deflection. “What did Lilia really say to you?”

Victor shrugs. “That I couldn’t cut my hair.”

“There’s more than that. This is what was troubling you. So….so maybe it’s time to talk about it because I have no idea what I’ll say so – so that can’t be an excuse. To not talk about it. Please, Vitya?” Yuuri can’t handle anymore silence, anymore hiding. They’ve been so good. God, they’re engaged. He came back and proposed and this isn’t supposed to be happening. It’s the off-season. He’s supposed to have Victor to himself. How can only a few hours a week of training do so much damage?

Victor turns the cup around on its plate with his index finger. Then his middle, then finally his ring finger. He licks the pad and circles the rim delicately but can’t conjure a note of music. “It wasn’t much. You know I overreact. She only said that I need to embrace my manhood.”

“Your manhood?” Yuuri snorts at the thought. The conversation is too serious for him to make a joke about how much Yuuri has embrace Victor’s manhood. “Has she met you? You’re, uh, you’re you.”

Victor smiles dimly. “Exactly. I’m me. And I’ve been that for a long long time. She’s right. She’s always right about these things, you know. I owe her so much. She – she made me what I am as much as Yakov, you know. She always knows what aesthetic I should embrace.”

She’d been responsible for Victor’s domination in juniors. As much as Yakov was his coach on the ice and the man who kept Victor together, Lilia was the mastermind behind his beauty. She knew how to sculpt someone into their highest form. And now she’s decided Victor has a second phase of metamorphose.

“I’m not pretty anymore,” Victor confesses tiredly. “My layback is stiff. I’ve played the feminine form long enough. I’ve never committed myself to being a man. It’s simply time for a change. I’ve long since passed from the realm of fae into,” he gestures loosely at himself, encompassing and dismissive. “That’s all. I panicked. I’m sorry. I make everything so dramatic. I worried you.”

“You’re worrying me more right now,” Yuuri manages around a stiff swallow. “Vitya. You aren’t – that’s not how – how you work. You don’t just stop being who you are and be a new person. This isn’t...this is more than _aesthetic_.”

“I won’t win a gold at the Olympics as I am.”

That’s Victor speaking, not Lilia. That’s fire’s competitive fire in his eyes and the conviction in his hard jaw. There are new hard things about him, things Yuuri can’t deny. Yes, Victor’s body is different. His clothes fit him differently. He holds himself differently. Hell, he even acts differently. A little more removed, a little less lightly.

“I played my woman self. I embraced her. Now it’s time to show the world the man I have become. I think,” Victor smiles thoughtfully, cheek in one hand, the other stretched out across the table for Yuuri to take, “I will like showing the world that too.”

What can Yuuri say? There’s no going back. Victor’s already made up his mind, even if the decision required cutting part of himself off.

“You know you can be whatever you want to with me,” Yuuri promises, squeezing Victor’s hand.

“Oh, I know, solnyshka. You never hold me back.”

 

 

[Victor with his hair short and styled, dressed in a suit next to Yuuri who also has styled hair and a suit. They’re giving the camera their best sultry looks.]

2,239,894 likes

 **v-nikiforov** notice anything different? Thank you to my dear friends @innaelooks for the cut and style and for doing my fiance's hair too! We’re off to a much needed date night  <3

 **celebstyle** Looking good @ **v-nikiforov.**

 **Phichit+chu** holy fuck what the fuck

 **skating.4.life**???????????????????????????? I love but ?????????????????

 **Ikkivikki** NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHY DID U CUT IT

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Yuuri and Victor nab Yuri outside of his dormitory building before Yuri can catch the city bus to Yakov and Lilia’s a few days later when Victor's feeling up to a form of extended interaction with anyone that isn't Yuuri.

“Get in, kitten,” Victor calls. Yuri looks at him, at the Barbie sports car, at Yuuri waving innocently in the passenger seat and at Makkachin panting in the back seat. He inches back a step. “Don’t think about running or I’ll sick Makkachin on you,” Victor threatens.

“What the fuck,” Yuri growls and slams into the car. “What do you want.”

“To feed you!” Victor slams on the pedal and they lurch away from the curb. Yuri denies that he screams and clings to Makkachin. Denies it to his grave.

They take him out to lunch and pester him to order lots of food. When Yuri grimly sticks to the cheapest thing on the menu, Victor orders ten extra things and shoves them at Yuri who only glares.

“You’re a growing boy. Eat more,” Yuuri tsks, putting crab onto Yuri’s plate. “So skinny.”

“We should bring you to Hasetsu. Mama will lose her mind if she sees you.”

“Whose mom?” Yuri asks, curious against his own will.

“Both our mom,” Yuuri says with a sickly sweet smile. He gives Victor a big gooey lovesick look and Victor beams and sighs and wiggles his nose at Yuuri and they are _disgusting_. Yuri eats the food cause it’s good and it’s free and if the two gay weirdos want to feed him then by all means. He isn’t going to say no.

“So you’re not, like, dying, right?” Yuri eventually asks through a mouthful of food. Victor shakes his head and flicks his bangs out of his eyes. Short hair or not, Victor still finds a way to toss it around dramatically.

“No. That was only a hiccup in my otherwise healthy lifestyle. But I’m sorry you had to see that,” Victor says, gentling. He gives the boy across the table a discerning look. Victor had confessed that he wanted to explain the other day to Yuri properly and not leave him in the dark; Yuri would be part of their lives in some way for at least a few months. In fact, Victor felt inclined to go public. It was something he was working out with Yakov and his PR agents; it could affect his sponsorships but it might be a success story rather than a scare-story. They hoped to gain new sponsors and shed a little light on mental health particularly in the athletic world. Yuuri would support him no matter what he chose.  

So he does, in so many words, explain his mental health. When he reveals that his sudden departure from Russia over a year ago was part of an episode, Yuri bites his lip with what Yuuri knows is a stopped-up apology unwarranted and uninformed judgements issued against Victor. As if that isn’t enough, Yuuri gently nudges in to say “and we want to bring you to Hasetsu with us. We’ll buy the ticket of course.”

“Huh?” Yuri grunts, lip twisted up. “Why? Why?” He narrows his eyes. “we’re not friends.”

“Well, you’re my student right now. I want to keep working with you. There’s a rink there and everything. It’ll only be for two weeks.”

“There’s a hot spring and it’s a-maze-ing!” Victor adds, back to his usual bubbly self.

Yuuri knows Yuri will say yes. Yakov will encourage the idea with Yuri’s grandpa. The boy has never been on vacation and frankly, Yuuri doesn’t want to leave him to Lilia. Not after what she said to Victor. Not when Yuuri can see the mutable potential in Yuri. He doesn’t want to return to another boy who thinks he has to remake himself to succeed.

 

* * *

  
They skip a party from BIBI for the music video. Victor’s agent secures Victor a contingent modeling spread for Armani’s new Gold line if Victor brings him gold at the olympics. There’s costume fittings to be done and an ice show down the line. None of it matter once they board the plane for Japan.

Mari loses her goddamn mind. Yuuri hasn’t seen his sister fangirl in years but she points at Yuri and shrieks and then drags the poor child into her childhood bedroom and stabs a finger at some guy in a boyband while Yuri tries to remember his English lessons. Hiroko and Toshiya spoil Victor absolutely rotten, making sure Victor knows without a shadow of a doubt that they enthusiastically can’t wait to claim him as their son. Yuri takes pictures of everything he eats and sends it to his grandpa. Yuuri looks at all this and feels like everything’s finally going right.

Yuuri’s glad for Minako’s pointers when he takes Yuri to her studio. Yuri marvels at her through eight layers of feigned disinterest. When Yuuko and Takeshi visit their parents on the island, Yuri gets all quiet and awkward around Yuuko and Yuuri has to physically restrain Victor from making obvious jokes about Yuri having a crush.

“He’s into _moms_ ,” Victor laughs.

“That’s really fucked up for ten different reasons, shut up,” Yuuri hisses, dragging hima way from the rink as Yuuko and Yuri wrangle the triplets. They don’t tell Yuri that they can hear him through the wall when he calls home. It’s never clear, but they always catch his greeting to his mother and his grandpa.

“He’s so cute,” Victor sighs.

Yuri’s definitely cute, with just enough babyfat that giving his cheeks a pinch is worth the outrage; and he’s so tiny, especially standing next to Victor whose height is thrown into relief in Hasetsu where he veritably towers over _everyone_ , that Yuri’s youth is only too apparent. It makes Yuuri want to protect him. Victor keeps saying that Yuri reminds him of himself, and Yuuri sees a child who’s relying solely on ice skating to navigate his life. He _has_ to be the best because those sponsorships pay his family’s bills. The intensity of his dedication cuts away the potential for everything else; for normal schooling, for weekend trips with friends, for _friends_. At most, Yuri is playful with Mila but apparently never got close to other boys in his division. His successful rooming situation is only because he’s with ice dancers.

Victor had Yakov. He didn’t have many skating friends either. He had been friendly with people growing up but nothing deep, nothing significant until Chris who had chased after Victor’s silver hair until he could catch up in the senior division. Did Chris know Yuuri’s gratitude for the friendship he gave Victor? It’s a selfish, self-involved thought; Victor had Chris before he had Yuuri, but Yuuri can’t help think it. And in doing so, can’t help thinking of all that Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t have and how different he might become if he has Yuuri and Victor.

Lilia right now is fixed to remake Victor. And he’s going to let her. He’s going to give her whatever of himself he can to win. It’s most likely that this will be his last Olympics. Victor hurts already but he’s on a winning streak so he’ll skate till his bones break. And that’s probably how it’ll end. Something will snap, or something will grind into a place it shouldn’t, or tissue will go thin or tight or something. But damned if he won’t push himself that far. Yuuri both admires and fears that. He has no doubt that Lilia will push him to and past his limit until he becomes beautiful monstrous. More quads. More demanding routines. And if she had Plisetsky? If it _wasn’t_ an Olympic year and Yakov didn’t need his wife’s critical eye, would she be remaking little Yura? He’d let her. He’d want her to too. Which leaves Yuuri to give him what he needs to succeed as a skater, but can he also give Yuri a space to grow up?

Whatever remaining issues Yuri has with Victor dissolve on the ice. No matter what, Victor is still the person who brought Yuri into this world, and he can’t deny Victor’s magnetism. They secure private rink time at Ice Castle in the morning, vacation or not, and show each other their choreography. Sometimes Yuuri goes with them, sometimes he doesn’t. Every time, even if they come back with more bruises, they come back a little easier with themselves.

It’s god awful hot and sticky, and the Russians are melting, so most days they go to the beach and play in the water. Makkachin’s curls poof with the salt water and she tracks so much sand into the inn that Mari threatens to disown her. Victor is mortally offended and gets stuck hosing her down every day.  They have a bonfire with some local kids and a few old classmates of Yuuri’s who stayed with the small home businesses they grew up under. Victor’s kisses taste like sand and nori and melon juice. They make love nightly, hungrily. Yuuri doesn’t think they sleep. Victor can’t get enough of fucking him, slow and never ending, too hot all over, too hot inside.

Toshiya teases them knowingly. “It’s a good thing neither of you can get pregnant because we’d already have a herd of kids.”

Yuuri miserably translates when Victor asks for “a little clarification, Yuuri my dearest?” but the asshole probably knows exactly what papa said.

“I wish you could have babies together. They’d be so cute,” Toshiya mopes. “Yuuri has his mother’s hips after all.”

Away from Toshiya’s ears, Victor turns to a scarlet-faced Yuuri and wonders in an innocent tone “should we tell your dad that you’d make me pregnant if you could?”

“We’re divorcing.”

“First you try to knock me up and then you leave me?” Victor gasps.

 

Yuuri can’t stop tasting Victor, can't stop smelling him. The heat brings it out in Yuuri, a wet-mouthed needing. Victor thrills under Yuuri’s hands and words. Yuuri eats him out in the middle of the day, drags him off to the bedroom and presses him into the bed. Victor expects it. He wears his skimpy black thongs and gets on all fours and Yuuri pulls the slip of fabric away from his hole and Victor bites a pillow to keep quiet. That’s how they find out Victor can come untouched. Yuuri drives him to the edge with his tongue, then makes sure Victor’s gagged and the music in the room is loud enough and then he slaps Victor’s ass and his thighs and his balls until Victor comes onto the towel beneath him, thrusting at nothing, breaking open as the sweat on his body sings with the impact of Yuuri’s palms.

Fuck if that isn’t the sexiest thing Yuuri’s seen from Victor in a long time. Victor groans into the pillow as Yuuri eases him down and gives  him a few finishing swats to shake the last shudders from his body. He laughs into Yuuri’s neck when Yuuri hugs him and dreamily promises to do it better when they are back in their apartment and Yuuri can really make Victor scream.

“Do it better? Make me come better?”

“Yeah.” Yuuri kisses his cheek chastely. “What’s marriage for?”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Victor laughs, weak with his lingering orgasm, “you are true eros.”

“Victor Nikiforov, you are true dorkos.”

“Sounds like a Greek god. I’ll assume that’s the god of big dicks and wet pussy.”

“More like wet mussy,” Yuuri says, slipping a finger between Victor’s asscheeks to rub his spit-soaked hole.

“H-hey,” Victor protests, shimmying away. “I still have a boy pussy, Yuuri. Don’t be ageist.”

“God,” Yuuri laughs, “you’re _so_ fucking _disturbing.”_

 

“You know I can hear you guys, right?” Yuri snarls first thing when he sees them. “It was like. 2 in the afternoon and you were _doing it. It was light out!”_

“You can’t complain when we’re taking you on a hot air balloon ride. Tell Yuuri thank you for being a good host,” Victor tuts, ruffling Yuri’s hair.

“Eugh! Don’t touch me! I don’t know where those fingers have been!”

“Aw, Yura, who told you so much about sex? Did Yakov give you the talk? He gave me the talk. I remember the day—“

Yuri screams at Victor and takes off running. Makkachin chases after him. They’re very nearly late for their balloon ride.

 

[Hasetsu seen from above at a great height] [three thermos’s tapped together in a toast] [Yuri assisting with the fuel tank, a large flame visible.] [Yuuri and Victor leaning over the rail pointing, smiling, pressed close.]

 **Yuri_plisetsky01** 400m isn’t a bad look even with a pair of mushy losers

* * *

 

 

An abrupt storm in November lays a freeze all of St. Petersburg. Carrying groceries, Yuuri missteps; he saves bashing his skull open by catching his fall just barely, but the trade-off is a broken wrist and a badly twisted ankle. Mari sums up the situation with an accurate “well that’s not good.” Yeah. Thanks Mari. Not good.

Victor doesn’t take it well but Yuuri takes it worse. The only barely-there silver lining is that it was his right hand and his left ankle so he can hobble on a single crutch for the first few days until he can put weight on his ankle again. Luckily, Yuri’s far enough into the season that he doesn’t need Yuuri to work the choreography with him and mostly helps from the sidelines.

Yuri’s November qualifier for the GPF is Internationaux de France in Grenoble. Chris is competing there. Victor has Skate America in a few days but he insists on joining them in France. He’s tender and doting on Yuuri and it wars between aggravating Yuuri’s anxiety because Yuuri feels weak and being exactly what Yuuri needs to feel loved. Yuuri keeps himself together just barely but truthfully, being unable to dance has him out of sorts and grumpy with restlessness.

Chris beats Yuri out for gold and some dude name Jean-Jacques takes silver. Yuri’s surly with his bronze _despite_ the fact that he’s a first-timer in Men’s. Victor’s presence at the banquet doesn’t help.

Victor doesn’t like Yuuri being hurt in any way, shape, or form. No. But he does enjoy dressing Yuuri. Yuuri submits to his sartorial whims and plays perfect mannequin to Victor’s decisions, allowing Victor to help him with his slacks (unnecessary) and his dress shirt (necessary) and suit coat, and especially his tie. Victor is pleased to choose Yuuri’s ties.

“At least I won’t have to worry about you stealing all of Yuri’s potential sponsors,” Yuuri says, apropos nothing. Victor thumbs the full Windsor into place and looks down at his fiance’s assessing gaze.

“Hmm? What’s that mean?” Victor lingers at Yuuri’s neck, letting his hands do as they please and they please to touch Yuuri’s silky skin and curl into the hair at the base of his neck where there’s no pomade greasing it. Yuuri sighs and cants his hips forward and Victor steps closer to him, sliding his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders, dropping his head to ghost a kiss over Yuuri’s forehead before running his nose up along Yuuri’s.

“I mean this,” Yuuri clarifies. He holds Victor’s waist, under his suit jacket to feel the strength of his core, the flex of his back. “Not to flatter myself, but you’re – uh, hm, very obviously distracted.”

Victor giggles, breath chasing out over Yuuri’s lips. “My master is so handsome and dressed so well, how could I care for anything else?”

“Good.” Yuuri squeezes Victor’s bum and gives him a pat. “Deflect any interest to Yuri. He’s in a mood tonight.”

“I’m in a different mood tonight too, solnyshka,” Victor teases with a lascivious grin. Yuuri gives him a harder pat, but that only encourages Victor. He’s grown comfortable with himself again, short hair and broad shoulders and all. When he wants to, he dresses prettily, but now he’s intrigued by hard lines and rugged materials, of putting on the airs of a gentleman. Yuuri carves space in their home for Victor to be delicate and soft if he needs it, to be pretty or to be a puppy. Anything, Yuuri makes it possible.

They don’t have Makkachin for this trip and they leave behind the hotel room with a slow pace, Victor with his arm looped through Yuuri’s sling carefully. Yuuri’s cast itches but he has the small comfort of his fingers free and able to wiggle, his engagement ring polished and bright. Yuri went ahead with Yakov, leaving Yuuri and Victor to arrive fashionably late. Chris is already pink and deep in his champagne and he finds them immediately, kissing them both on the lips.

“Yuuri, my poor darling,” he bemoans, cupping Yuuri’s cheek. “I so looked forward to a dance with you.”

“S-sorry to disappoint,” Yuuri sighs. “I’m only capable of swaying right now.”

“Gentle swaying,” Victor says. “Low-contact swaying.”

“Hardly fun,” Chris sniffs. He takes Victor’s elbow in his. “You will have to do, Nikiforov. Now, Yuuri, your little kitten has such a miserable face. How will he handle this?”

Chris turns Yuuri on his feet and gestures subtly to Yuri who’s scowling up at the effusive Jean-Jacques. The boy, only a little older than Yuri, had flubbed a few jumps, hence Chris’s gold over him. Victor confessed that JJ, as he called himself, had a fantastically difficult routine. If he could land it at the GPF, he’d be competition for Victor that was worth watching.

They thankfully don’t have to intervene as Yuri catches sight of them and makes a no-doubt abrupt excuse for departing from the conversation, pointing at them and turning from JJ. He’s red-faced and sneering and practically stomps his feet in his approach.

“Ugh, god, that guy is soooo annoying. He talks so fucking much—“

“Language, Yura—“

“No one cares about your fucking band, JJ—“

“At least curse more quietly, please—“

“Where is Yakov? What time is it? He took my phone.” Yuri puffs a breath up into the few bangs that have escaped their pin. Victor pulls him forward by the shoulders and fusses with his hair, Yuri enduring it with a scowl and secret pleasure. “He said I have to stay a full hour.”

“Stay with us for the next thirty minutes and you’ll be fine,” Victor placates. He licks his thumb and smooths at Yuri’s hairline, eye on the details, only to get his hand slapped.

“Ew, stop, I don’t want your spit on me. I hate when you do that.”

“Aww,” Victor pouts, suppressing his laughter. “You’re such an adorable kitten that I can’t help myself.”

 _“I hate you_ ,” Yuri curses him lowly. “You better watch your ass when I get to the final. I’m going to kick you so far off the podium, no one will remember your name.”

“Hmmm, that will be awfully confusing for the announcers at the Olympics,” Victor grins. He dances out of range of Yuri’s outraged kidney-attack and ducks and weaves politely to the food table, singing his promises to bring back a feast for Yuuri. Yuri follows him and one attempt to grab Victor by his jacket lands him in a firm handhold with Victor pulling him close and lecturing him about his footwork: “my Yuuri did not teach you that sloppiness.”

Yuuri steals Chris’s champagne glass and knocks it back. Chris rubs his back sympathetically. Victor and Yuri bring out the best and worst in each other. Once the ice, ha! was broken between them, they played a constant antagonistic but affectionate brotherly game of cat and mouse. Poor Yura suffered the role of mouse too often under Victor’s devious paws.

He sticks with Chris, catching up on nonsense. Yuuri’s been to enough banquets at this point that it’s no longer interesting. Skaters and coaches mingle, sponsors smile between shrimp puffs. Yuuri wishes that Brianna were here but she’s off being important somewhere else. And thankfully, Yuuri isn’t so important anymore. Even though his career has advanced, he’s dim compared to Victor. Everyone wants a bite out of Victor and Victor’s towing Yuri around with him in lieu of Makkachin. Yuri no doubt realizes that and permits it with a rare show of teenage patience.

Apparently, the memo got a little fucked in its delivery to all and sundry because JJ approaches Yuuri with a friendly smile and the air of someone with _thoughts to be shared_.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” JJ greets, so spot on in pronunciation, cadence meticulous, that Yuuri can tell that he rehearsed saying his name with all the right emphasizes. Yuuri shakes the extended hand and tries not look around obviously for his fiancé. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m JJ! But you already know that, I bet.”

Yuuri tries his best to mimic Victor’s perfect smile but he can feel the awkward scrawl of his own mouth. His left hand isn’t suited for handshakes and the sensation distracts him.

“I’m sorry to hear about your accident. My girlfriend likes your videos a lot, she’s been a big fan ever since you did a workshop with the Kardashians. And congratulations on your engagement! I’m sorry that I’ll have to beat your fiancé out on the ice, but all’s fair in love and war, eh?”

It’s just…so much talking.

“I actually have a question for you, Yuuri. Can I call you Yuuri? I hear other people do it. You don’t use honorifics outside of Japan, do you?”

“A-ah, not really—“

“Great! So, listen, Yuuri,” and JJ keeps up his insurmountable smile but his voice drops to a private volume. “Your dog. I saw you walking her at a competition once and she had on a vest; is she a service dog?”

Any ability to keep up a smile vanishes. Yuuri's eyes widen and his heart skips. “She – uhm, that’s not really—“

JJ shakes his head and shifts backwards, rubbing the back of his neck, something crumbling in his face. “Sorry, man. Don’t mean to dig into your business, it’s just you talked about your anxiety in one of your videos and I was curious. I wanted to know how that works. You don’t always have her.” JJ laughs for no reason and Yuuri blinks.

“Uhm. I’m not sure…I understand, JJ. Sorry?”

“To tell you the truth, Yuuri, I’m not sure I know what I’m trying to ask either. I guess, does she help you? She makes it easier?” JJ’s attempting to be casual but the questions aren’t the usual invasive ones Yuuri expects regarding a service dog. “I’m not sure how it works. I’ve only seen dogs for blindness and stuff, but you have one for anxiety. Do I – does someone go to a doctor?”

_Huh._

“She’s an emotional support pet,” Yuuri says. He has a better grip now, and it doesn’t bother him necessarily that Makkachin is mistaken for his esp. She functions the same for him, but he never prioritizes his health over Victor’s when it comes to needing her. “Your therapist or psychiatrist will help you certify an animal.”

“So you need to be in therapy,” JJ sighs, rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw.

“Yuuri! Want to try to try this cheese? It’s worth the tummy-ache.” Victor’s on him like a leech, holding up a piece of cheese on a cracker with one hand, his other hand holding a plate piled high with food. Yuuri accepts the food from Victor’s finger to Victor’s utter delight. It’s worth the embarrassment to see Victor’s smile grow. The cheese is also delicious and worth the tummy-ache. Victor accepts his lactose farts.

“Hi, Victor.”

“Who are you?”

“What? You don’t mean that!”

Victor throws his head back and laughs. “Of course I know who you are,” and Yuuri knows that he forgot JJ’s name. “You’re the guy who got silver behind my best friend.” Victor winks for good measure.

“I beat your little Russian kitten. Where is the little fairy?”

“Careful,” Victor warns behind his cemetery smile. “You’re talking to Oberon and Titania about _our_ kitten.”

JJ laughs awkwardly and looks at Yuuri as if they’re companions against Victor. Yuuri shoves a tiny finger sandwich in his mouth and avoids eye contact.

“So what were you talking to my Yuuri about?” The vague murderous intent is gone in a flutter of eyelashes, replaced by his easy confident posture. He’s pristine in his suit, too stunning by far, tall and statuesque beside Yuuri.

“Oh. Uhh,” JJ weighs his chances of survival before he carefully says, “Yuuri’s therapy dog.”

“Yuuri’s therapy dog,” Victor repeats, expression thrown. He looks down at Yuuri with blatant confusion.

“Makkachin. My therapy dog. For my anxiety,” Yuuri says pointedly. Wow, it’s a really good thing they aren’t spies or something because they’d get caught in no time. Hopefully after they’re married their psychic links improves.

“Why are you asking him about that?” Victor challenges. “That’s private medical information.”

“Vitya, it’s okay,” Yuuri tries. But Victor’s right. It’s beyond rude to walk up to someone and inquire about their need for aid or their illnesses. “JJ was asking for his own sake.” And now Yuuri looks at JJ with a question of confirmation and JJ, after a beat, nods to Yuuri and turns his eyes back to Victor, chest puff and chin raised.

“I started having panic attacks but I don’t want to go on medication if I can avoid it.”

It’s a painful echo of Vicor’s own reluctance to start his own treatment, and immediately the fight leaves Victor’s shoulders. He releases a slow breath through his mouth and combs a hand through his bangs, letting them flop more into his eyes. He looks at Yuuri, and Yuuri watches the tension pull at his mouth and brows before Victor sighs again, letting it go. Yuuri presses against his side and wiggles his fingers so that Victor takes his slung hand and rubs at Yuuri’s engagement ring.

“Makkachin is for me.”

“Eh?”

“My mental illness isn’t known, not yet. But Makkachin is my therapy dog.”

“Oh.” JJ has the same stunned expression Yuri had had when Victor told him. Like they can’t believe that someone as successful as Victor is fighting something inside himself. “Didn’t expect that one, I’ll say. Wait, so Yuuri, you don’t have anxiety?”

The only reason Yuuri doesn’t slap a hand to his face is because he’s holding a piece of cheese and Victor’s hand. “I do.”

“Why don’t you have a – what was it? Support pet?”

“He has me,” Victor says, saving Yuuri, maybe. Maybe not saving him. “I’m his emotional support puppy. I act super cute and then he feels better.”

Yeah no, that’s worse than JJ’s awkward questioning.

“Thank you for explaining that, Viten’ka, darling,” Yuuri says sweetly. Victor winks at him. They desperately need a psychic link. With a clarifying breath and desperate need for champagne, Yuuri turns his attention to JJ who looks baffled. “Excuse us. This isn’t a topic we want to discuss right now. My advice is attend regular therapy; you’re a high level athlete, it will be good for you regardless of the panic attacks. Bring it up there.”

“R-right. Right! Thank you, either way. Victor, I look forward to skating against you in the Finale!”

“Thank you,” Victor dismisses. He guides Yuuri away aimlessly, anywhere else but where they’d been. The moment they’re alone, they share an exhausted laugh. Victor groans and leans against the wall, surveying the banquet. “Fuck this. Let’s grab Yuri and go.”

“Are you okay? You didn’t have to tell him that,” Yuuri presses. Victor blows out a breath, tiredness seeping into his face.

“It’s fine. It’s a warm up for the big public reveal.” Victor performs a tastefully subtle set of jazz hands. Yuuri hums. When it comes, it’ll come. For now...

He takes Victor’s hand in his good one. “I think my cute puppy needs lots of kisses.”

“He does,” Victor whines. “So many kisses, Yuuri.”

“Hey, losers, stop making gross faces at each other in the corner and let’s go. There’s a hot tub and my feet are killing me,” Yuri says in a rush as he appears in a small tizzy, texting on his phone, pockets of his suit jack suspiciously bulging with smuggled food.

“Are you stealing croissants?” Yuuri sighs.

“Did you even eat one? They’re delicious.” Yuri pats his pocket like a promise.

“I’ll text Chris,” Victor says, already pulling out his phone. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the hot tub. How much do you think Yuri will freak out if I kiss Chris in front of him?”

“Let’s not traumatize the child anymore than usual, Vitya.”

  
The four of them sit in a hotel hot tub and record a few videos to send to Phichit. Yuri's only addition is asking "who the hell is Phichit" and getting hushed by Yuuri. The hotel bed is a home with Victor beside him. Yuuri keeps his broken wrist, now out of its sling, straight by his side, Victor smothered up against his other side. There's so much to do. There's always so much to do. His heart races to try to imagine it all. Victor's next competition, then the next and the next. The Olympics. Victor's inevitable press release on his bipolar. Whatever may come from that. The potential jobs choreographing for skaters. The wedding. His wedding. Being married to Victor Nikiforov, loving him every day.

 

"Kiss me," Victor mumbles. He noses sleepily at Yuuri, finding his mouth in the dark.  
  
There's so much to do. He rolls over and kisses Victor with far more passion than Victor expects because he gives a surprised hum.

"What's that for?" he asks, licking the taste of Yuuri's minty mouth on his lips.

"I'm excited," Yuuri whispers giddily.

"For what?"

"For everything." Yuuri gropes for Victor's hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his ring finger. "For everything with you."

 


End file.
